


All Souls' Day

by Ghislainem70



Series: The Indestructibles [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, BAMF!John, BAMF!Lestrade, BAMF!Mycroft, BAMF!Sherlock, Slash, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-09
Updated: 2014-11-09
Packaged: 2017-10-23 15:00:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 75,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/251617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghislainem70/pseuds/Ghislainem70
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft and Lestrade go rogue to foil a terrorist plot, and Sherlock and John are hired by MI6 to hunt them down.  Each man is tested to the limit.  Will they survive All Souls' Day? COMPLETE.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Five Surprises.

**Author's Note:**

> **Readers who enjoy my tracks can find the All Souls' Day playlist here:[ALL SOULS' DAY PLAYLIST](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o2BNpK01eww&list=PLpHDEpZAuY1-yY3Xl0A1Co999RxbJLSPq)**

Mycroft Holmes was not an easy man to take by surprise.

In fact, the only person he could recall really surprising him at all in recent memory was Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade.  Mycroft was a cautious man, a man of habit: a man who lived, worked and conducted even his intimate liaisons according to rigorously laid plans. Until now.  His brother Sherlock had recently advised him to bear in mind the shortness of life. Mycroft had reflected deeply upon that deceptively simple advice. And had concluded that while this was a fact more comfortable to avoid, it was indisputably true; accordingly, it might be advisable to make certain adjustments for such things as. . . spontaneity.

He had thought he was doing rather well. Mycroft had, for example, abandoned his half-formed and (in hindsight) impractical plan to seduce Greg Lestrade over some indeterminate period of time, slowly, subtly, as he had thought befitting for his first and possibly only chance at the hitherto unimaginable, unthinkable: love. Something he had never before felt, nor in truth ever wished to feel.  Instead, he had thrown caution to the winds and made what was for him, an almost unimaginably bold and precipitate declaration.

The first surprise was that despite having long nursed an impossible and unrequited love for John Watson, Lestrade had not rejected Mycroft's advances, allowing them to commence what he hoped would more than a passionate affair.

The second surprise had just been delivered: a message from his butler and aide, Morris:

PROFOUNDEST REGRET TO REPORT AGENT 009 DEAD. FULL REPORT ATTACHED. LESTRADE INTENDS TO FIND YOU. ADVISE ORDERS.

Mycroft sank into a chair. Agent 009, aka Robert Roussell, was an MI6 operative under Mycroft’s supervision, most recently in Geneva. He had also been Mycroft’s companion in certain encounters that had been amusing – but no more -- to them both. Mycroft sincerely mourned him, but with a clear-eyed practicality that recognized the risks hazarded by all 00 agents. Robert had endured longer than many.  His mourning was all the sharper because, according to Morris’ report, Robert had very likely died trying to get an urgent message to Mycroft.

* * *

Mycroft was presently undercover in the town of Ascot, near Windsor, investigating the mysterious and troubling appearance there of an ETA terrorist called “Aguirre.” As such, Mycroft– being England’s foremost security expert on ETA and the Basque separatist movement in Spain – had been plucked from behind his desk and ordered back into the field.  Whatever message Robert had been trying to deliver when he died, Mycroft knew it had to do with Aguirre. Mycroft didn’t believe in coincidences. Someone must already be aware of the Government’s nascent effort to uncover Aguirre’s plans.

Mycroft was almost more troubled by the rest of Morris’ message. Lestrade had, through reckless acts of personal heroism, become an enemy of the Russian mafia. Mycroft had secretly disposed of this threat by the most direct of means: assassination. But he still worried ceaselessly about Lestrade’s personal safety, particularly as he couldn’t know when he would be able to return to London. Mycroft had begged Lestrade to stay in his own (heavily armed) house, certain Lestrade would be safest there.

But now, Lestrade was apparently, surprisingly, determined to leave London to try and find him. His heart thudded in his chest, an unusual sensation to the usually imperturbable Mycroft. He had to stop Lestrade. Even though there was surely no risk of him actually succeeding.  But as he picked up one of several disposable mobiles to make the call, he received another message:

PLEASE CALL. TRUST NO ONE. I ARRIVE BILBAO 13:00. I WILL WAIT MUSEUM CLOSING HOUR. EXPLAIN WHEN I SEE YOU. BE CAREFUL FOR ME.

It was the third time Lestrade had surprised him in less than a week.

Bilbao was a Basque city in Spain. The very next place that Mycroft intended to go.  Which meant that somehow – how he could not as yet imagine – Lestrade was aware of his mission. A mission so highly classified, that only a handful of the most highly placed persons in MI6 were aware of it.

 _Trust no one_ , Lestrade said. Classic spycraft required Mycroft at this point to treat Lestrade as a direct threat. This, of course, was quite impossible. Mycroft refused to entertain it for even a moment. Instead, he mused over whether it was at all likely that Lestrade could be persuaded to turn around.  Reflecting upon what he knew of Greg Lestrade, he realized it was hopeless.

Under any other circumstance, he would just have Lestrade picked up and forcibly returned to London. But that was unacceptable to Greg.  Mycroft recognized he was violating some pretty fundamental ground rules here. But he had recently made a vow to be more spontaneous.  And life was short.

 _Be careful for me_ , Lestrade said.  Mycroft cherished those four short words, almost a sort of declaration in themselves, and then his heart was thudding for a different reason.

He stood up and meticulously cleared his few belongings - dossier, briefcase, duffle, coat, and umbrella - from the ugly house in Ascot that had been his temporary base. Gatwick was nearby. If he hurried, he could be in Bilbao in time. Face to face, he would have to make Lestrade see reason.  On the jet to Spain, Mycroft allowed himself the luxury of spinning elaborate plans for submitting Lestrade to certain unorthodox methods of persuasion.

* * *

Sherlock was pacing 221b like a caged tiger. It was his last day on doctor’s orders to keep his jaw shut — dislocated in a vicious beating at the hands of Russian gangsters.  Gangsters from whom he and John had been delivered by the unexpected appearance of Mycroft, a most interesting circumstance which Sherlock had had the leisure to ponder during the insufferable restrictions of his convalescence.

Sherlock had sent innumerable messages to Mycroft demanding to be informed just what Mycroft thought he was doing blowing up a warehouse full of Russian gangsters and, apparently, personally breaking the neck of their top boss – then disappearing without a word. Mycroft hadn’t done anything like field work in more than five years.  And while he never expected Mycroft to confide in him about his classified work, usually Mycroft contrived to get him at least an indirect message so that their mother, Lady Eugenia Holmes, didn’t worry too much. Mycroft knew that Sherlock himself didn’t particularly worry about him.

Mycroft had answered only with a vague “Don’t worry. I’ll be away for a while. Unavoidable. Take care of Mummy.”

Forbidden to speak while his jaw was healing, Sherlock groped with exasperation for his pen and paper.

LET’S PAY MYCROFT A VISIT.

John shut his laptop. “I thought you didn’t know where Mycroft was?”

HIS HOUSE.

“Why do you say that? Oh, I see. Did you quarrel again? He’s not speaking to you? That doesn’t sound like Mycroft, Sherlock. You, maybe. Look, leave it alone – why are you fretting so over Mycroft? You never have before. He’ll call you when he’s ready.”

Sherlock was already pulling his coat on. He ignored John mainly because John was right. He had to admit he actually didn’t know why he felt so uneasy about Mycroft. But something was afoot. Because Sherlock had learned that Detective Inspector Lestrade had been suddenly been sent away from the Yard on a leave of absence – at the same time that Mycroft had disappeared.  And now Lestrade, too, was nowhere to be found.

Despite being perfectly aware of the depth of Mycroft’s regard for Lestrade, Sherlock did not suppose that the men had not run off together for some sort of private affair. Scotland Yard was buried under the twin burdens of the aftermath of the London riots and the ever-expanding phone hacking scandal. It was not a time that Lestrade would willingly have left his duties. And Mycroft; well, Mycroft never left his duties at all.

Sherlock almost never operated on pure intuition. But where his brother was concerned, although he would never admit it, intuition was not something he felt able to ignore.

He gestured impatiently for John to follow, and they went down into Baker Street and hailed a cab to St. John’s Wood.

* * *

There was a new carpet in the front hall of Mycroft’s elegant house in St. John’s Wood. Sherlock noted it immediately and settled his piercing gaze upon Morris. Morris, as always, maintained his rocky impassivity beneath the dramatic scar across his cheek. Sherlock thrust the new carpet aside with his foot. The wood parquet beneath was stained with dark, familiar marks.

“It’s blood, Sherlock,” John said. “That’s amaz — How did you know?”

Sherlock was thoroughly frustrated with writing notes, and growled quietly between clenched teeth: “New carpet. Old one was a gift. From our Mother. Mycroft wouldn’t replace it.” He stared at Morris.

“Mr. Sherlock. You know I am not at liberty to discuss Mr. Holmes’ business. You know I don’t know where he is, anyway,” he said fearfully. He was had always been in awe – even slightly terrified – of Sherlock. “It’s not Mr. Mycroft’s, though. The blood. Nor Mr. Lestrade’s,” he added as an afterthought, wondering whether Mycroft would be displeased at the indiscretion.

“That’s all right, then,” Sherlock said, gently enough. “We’ll just be in the library. Tea, Morris, please.” He ignored John’s protestations to stop speaking. “I’ll speak softly.”

“That's not exactly what I worry about.” John mocked, as they entered Mycroft’s orderly library.

* * *

Bilbao is a industrial city near the northern coast of Spain, not far from the French border. Its claim to international notoriety was the dazzling organic steel curves of the Guggenheim Museum, a masterpiece of the world-renowned architect Frank Gehry.  For Mycroft’s purposes, it was important as the principal city of the Basque autonomous region of Spain. And it was a known center of operations, particularly financial, for ETA.

He placed himself strategically upon the chic rooftop café of a hotel across the street from the Guggenheim, an hour ahead of the museum closing time. In this way, he could ensure that Lestrade was not being followed before intercepting him. The Guggenheim was on the banks of the Nervion River, and Mycroft pretended to be sketching the museum and the river while nursing his second espresso:

 

 

When he finally saw Lestrade’ silvered head coming along the street toward the museum, he almost gasped his relief. He hadn’t realized how afraid he was that Lestrade wouldn’t appear - and what that may have meant. Lestrade was walking casually, snapping photos, making an effort to blend. Mycroft admitted that he was doing very well. While a few passing women, and one man, gave Lestrade second glances, he could see even at this distance it was only because the man was so damnably attractive.

Chiding himself for these frivolous thoughts, he swiftly went downstairs and crossed the street, and began making a circuit of the museum, so that he would meet Lestrade coming the other way. A group of tourists came bustling out of the museum. It was closing time.

And then he rounded the shining metallic folds of the museum’s skin (it couldn’t properly be called a wall), and the last of the departing crowd trickled away. And Lestrade was there.

Their eyes met, and the grim reason for their meeting was forgotten for a moment as they were flooded with a kind of joy just to be together again. Mycroft made a small gesture for Lestrade to follow him down the stair to the riverbank, where he allowed Lestrade to catch up to him, and they stood side by side and looked across the river.

“Don’t look at me, just speak, look as if we’re admiring the view,” Mycroft said softly. “Greg, why did you do it? Do you know – how worried I’ve been?”

“Why did I do it? Because your man Robert died in my arms on the floor of your house last night,” Lestrade whispered fiercely. “Because he warned me that it was ‘someone inside’. Because he wanted me to warn you. Here I am.”

“Morris told me. But – how did you know to come here? Morris doesn’t know. Almost no one knows.”

“Robert . . . he gave me something. I didn’t know what to do except bring it to you. But not here,” Lestrade said. “No one knows we’re here, right? Let’s go now, let’s find somewhere we can be alone.”

“Do you see the hotel across the street from the museum? Go there. Get a room. Go to the bar and have a drink. Take your time. If anyone asks, tell them you’re here for —“

“It’s already arranged,” Lestrade said. “I called in a favor. I’m giving a lecture to the local police on urban riot control. Day after tomorrow.”

This was the fourth time Lestrade had surprised him.

“Mycroft. Jesus. Do you think we in the Yard are idiots? Do you think I’ve never been undercover before? Relax.”

But Mycroft was already walking away. “Room 518,” he said over his shoulder.

It was definitely time to turn the tables.

* * *

Sherlock started a slow circuit of Mycroft’s bookshelves, studying them intently.

“What are you looking for?”

“Languages,” Sherlock said. He didn’t seem inclined to elaborate, and John didn’t want him talking.

Morris brought tea and seemed relieved that Sherlock was so innocently employed.

John had a cup. It was delicious. Sherlock declined.

“Any particular language?”

Sherlock shook his head vaguely and continued his study. “A missing one,” he said cryptically.

John started the other direction, looking for books in foreign languages, figuring he might as well try to help. French, Russian, Japanese, German, Chinese, Arabic. . . .he got dizzy just imagining trying to absorb all of those foreign words. Mycroft had to be some sort of linguistic genius. Sherlock himself was quite skilled at several languages, but it appeared that in this, Mycroft excelled even his brilliant younger brother.

Sherlock stopped and was frowning at a high bookshelf. He dragged the rolling ladder over and climbed up a step, pulling down volume after volume. Then he gulped a cup of now-cold tea.

“Sherlock – are you going to tell me anything about this? It’s the Russians, isn’t it? I deserve to know. I was there, too,” he said, reminding Sherlock of their brief capture by the Russians, from which Mycroft (not without help from John) had unexpectedly rescued them. He figured that this whole affair, if it was anything, had to do with the Russians.

He went to look at the stack of books Sherlock was perusing. They were in a language unknown to him. Sherlock was smiling a little.

“Did you find something?”

Sherlock shook his head.

“Then why are you looking so happy?” It was true. That little smile had been the brightest expression to cross Sherlock’s face in days.

“It’s missing, John. The dictionary for Euskara. English to Euskara. The other books are here, I remember them all. But that one’s missing.”

“What’s Euskara?”

“The language of the Basque people. It is a dying language, although they are trying very hard to preserve it.”

“How do you know that book is missing? There must be over a thousand books in this room.”

“Because I know the languages that Mycroft is fluent in. Mycroft is an authority on Euskara. It’s rather obscure. I know he had that dictionary when last I was here because I saw it, Mycroft was going to give a lecture or something to some young agents, I believe. But it’s gone now.”

“So?”

“Isn’t it obvious? He’s taken it with him. Because he needs it. And he would only need it if he were going somewhere Basque is spoken fluently.”

“And where is that?”

“Either Spain or France. Balance of probabilities, Spain.”

“All right, so Mycroft went to Spain. Good for him.”

“Perhaps,” Sherlock said. It gave him a great deal of satisfaction to know that he had penetrated Mycroft’s secret. He knew, in a general way, where Mycroft had to be.

Doubtless it was some sort of classified mission; he understood that.  Given that it apparently was to Basque country, there was only one reasonable probability: something involving the violent separatist group, ETA.  Mycroft hadn’t asked for his help, of course.  But Sherlock didn’t have anything pressing on his hands. Possibly it would be amusing to dig a little deeper. He picked up a stack of books and carried them out the door.

“Mr. Holmes is very particular about his books, sir, I don’t think you should move them,” Morris objected, although respectfully.

“Oh don’t worry, Morris, we’ll take good care of them, won’t we, John?” John shuddered to imagine the condition of the volumes after they had been stored in 221b. He nodded with what he hoped was confidence.

Upon their return to 221b, John took the books from Sherlock and neatly stacked them in a relatively uncluttered corner. He reached up and touched Sherlock’s cheek, the bruising now faded. “How does it feel?”

“Hmmmm....” Sherlock wasn’t paying him any attention, but was eyeing the books.

“Sherlock, you’ve been cooped up for a week reading and watching telly. Forget the books. Shouldn’t we see if there might be something else we can find to occupy you, now you’re better?” Sometimes one had to be rather forceful to get Sherlock’s undivided attention. John grabbed him firmly by the hand and dragged him to the upstairs bedroom, happy that after the first step, Sherlock’s were even more eager than his own.

* * *

Room 518 of the Gran Hotel Domine looked directly over the Guggenheim through a window wall of cantilevered glass. The organic, sensual shapes of the curvilinear steel glowed under spotlights, casting a silver light into the darkened room. There was a knock at the door and Mycroft remembered when it had been he who had come to Lestrade, in the hotel on the Isle of Mann. He opened the door and pulled Lestrade inside and just like that, he didn’t care about ETA, he didn’t care about the Russians, all he cared about was that Lestrade with him, wrapped in his arms almost before he could get into the room. Lestrade just let him hold him, tight, Mycroft sinking his fingers into his hair.

“You can’t stay,” Mycroft finally said.

“You don’t mean that. I know you want me here,” Lestrade said. He pulled him down to sit at the edge of the bed. “But let me show you what I have to show you. And then I’ll leave. If it’s what you really want.”

He pulled a piece of bloodstained, crumpled newspaper from a plastic bag in his pocket and unwrapped the Roman-looking coin that was bundled together with it. “This is what he gave me. Robert. He died, right then.”

They examined it under the light of the lamp. The newspaper had the name of the city, BILBAO, written in the margin. The silver coin bore the head of a Roman senator or emperor, blurred. There were crude letters around the margin of the coin.

“It says, “DIES IRAE,” Lestrade said.

Their eyes met.

“And you know what that means?”

Lestrade nodded. “It’s Latin. It means, ‘Day of Wrath.’”

Mycroft took the items and put them back in the plastic bag, and sequestered it in his duffle.

“Thank you, Greg. Now. . . I think I understand. I’m very grateful. But you know I can’t involve you in this. I can’t even tell you what it’s about. You’ve already put yourself at risk, just bringing this to me.”

Lestrade nodded, resigned. “All right, then. You think we’re safe here tonight?”

“Yes. I don’t think anyone knows I’m here. I’ve not been followed. And I didn’t see any sign of anyone following you.”

“Then don’t make me leave,” Lestrade said, amazing himself with how much it hurt to think he might just have to walk away, this very minute. “Let me stay with you. Just until morning.”

Mycroft nodded, feeling a lump in his throat. Now he knew. This was real. This was happening.

And now, for just a few hours, all that was important was to try to show Lestrade what he felt, closing whatever space had remained between them as he held him close and hard. The words Mycroft wanted to say seemed impossible, it was too soon, it was too much. They just looked at each other until Lestrade finally whispered, “It’s all right. I know, I know. I feel it too.”

They glowed together in the silvery light until dawn.


	2. Legoland

ALL SOULS’ DAY. CHAPTER TWO

 

Lestrade awoke alone in bed, immediately feeling the empty space beside him. Mycroft was gone. Before he could become either alarmed or outraged, he heard Mycroft’s voice.

“Good morning. I’m in here.”

Not for the first time, Lestrade wondered at the Holmes’ brothers’ apparent omniscience. Lestrade sat up and rubbed his eyes, and noticed for the first time that the spacious bathroom here was, interestingly, a glass enclosure with blinds that could be drawn for privacy, or left open so that one could enjoy the view of the Guggenheim from the vast ovoid bathtub. The blinds were open, and Mycroft was examining something intently under the brilliant lights of the vanity.

Lestrade joined him, unable to resist embracing him from behind and looking over his shoulder. It felt very right. But when he felt the stiffness of tension in response, he gently let go.

“What is it?”

“It’s this coin . . .I’m not entirely sure it’s genuine. It will be important to know.” Mycroft was turning the Roman coin over in the light. The bloodstained piece of newspaper in its plastic bag was here too.

“What will you do now?”

Mycroft turned to Lestrade now, and he was saddened but unsurprised to see that he was entirely withdrawn into the defenses of his deep reserve.

“I’m not at liberty to say. Surely, you can appreciate that.” Mycroft said rather coldly, starting putting on his clothes with measured haste.

“We seem to say goodbye a lot,” Lestrade observed laconically. He wasn’t going to break down. Last night was enough for now. It would have to be. But now that he was letting himself feel everything that they might become, after everything he had suffered with John, this loss – he tried to tell himself it wasn’t, but that was what it felt like – was bitter.

“I did warn you,” Mycroft said, a little more softly, and at this Lestrade tried on a smile, and reached out to briefly grasp his hand.

“You did,” Lestrade admitted. “I don’t have to like it.” He watched as Mycroft transformed into a conservatively dressed businessman. He noticed with his sharp detective’s eyes that this suit was entirely different than those he had seen Mycroft wearing in London. He handed Mycroft the jacket, surreptitiously noting the label inside. It had been handmade in Barcelona.

“But,” Mycroft said, “there’s nothing to prevent you from telling me your plans. Please believe that I do need to know.” Lestrade told him that, in light of Mycroft’s string-pulling from above forcing Lestrade into a month’s leave, after his talk on urban riots he was leaving Spain to stay with family.

Lestrade could almost see the wheels turning as Mycroft internally reviewed Lestrade’s file (Lestrade knew perfectly well that Mycroft had a file on him), trying to guess what family Lestrade was referring to.

“Somerset?”

Lestrade shook his head, his grin a little cocky now. Mycroft frowned, recalling the surprise of Lestrade’s rather competent French.

“La Bastide-Clairence.” He started getting dressed while Mycroft consulted his Blackberry.

“No,” Mycroft said.

“Oh, yes,” Lestrade said. “In the Pyrénées-Atlantiques.”

“But. . . that is a Basque village.”

“I believe it is. I’ve never been. My cousin – more a sort of second cousin on my mother’s side, it’s complicated — Edouard’s a chef. He moved there – it must have been eight years ago – he works for a celebrity chef. Ducasse.”

“Greg, you’re not serious. . . .you do know what happened to Ducasse’s restaurant, I suppose?”

Lestrade nodded seriously. “Indeed I do. He had to walk away. The restaurant was bombed – more than once. Edouard said that the bombers accused Ducasse of exploitation.”

Mycroft pulled up a report. He read aloud a statement issued by Batasuna, the French arm of the radical Basque political party linked to ETA:

“The withdrawal of Alain Ducasse should be an example to all other speculators who pillage and folklorise the Basque country with their tourism projects.”

Mycroft’s face was set into grim lines and Lestrade could see where this was going.

“Mycroft. Don’t even think about it. I know what you’ve been trying to do. And . . .it means a lot. To me. No one’s ever . . . tried to take care of me, before. But I think – what we should be doing is taking care of each other. So don’t stop me. Here’s the address where I’ll be. I won’t ask you to tell me any more about your – operation. But if you can, come to me there. If you can’t, I’ll understand.”

Mycroft nodded, tongue-tied once more in the face of feelings and needs he was completely unfamiliar with, had no idea, really, how to navigate.

“Tell me one thing, though.”

“If I can.”

“Mycroft. You do have help? You’re not all alone on this?”

Mycroft paused, his face becoming if possible more closed. “You told me what Robert said.”

“He said, ‘someone inside.’”

“That is very clear, is it not? But you are correct. I cannot continue this operation. . . entirely alone. I do have a plan. Please – don’t worry.”

In fact, the mobile he had been permitting Lestrade to use was a secret and disposable number he was fairly certain was not being monitored, and this had been destroyed before he left Ascot. He was operating with secret identification he had painstakingly assembled, unknown even to MI6; he had disguised himself leaving England and entering Spain. He was as confident as he could be that the only person who knew where he was, was Lestrade.

“Don’t worry!” Lestrade exploded. “Nothing about this feels right! They got to Robert. He’s dead and gone, now. For all I know, they were trying for you. Mycroft, you’ve got to let me help you.”

Mycroft was silent. This was not his plan. Nothing about Lestrade was according to his plan. “If I need you, I will find you,” he finally agreed rather stiffly.

They just looked at each other, each trying to conceal a growing fear.

You do need me. Soon, you’re going to admit it, Lestrade thought.

* * *

John had been waiting for nearly half an hour for Sherlock to return to the flat from an errand whose purpose Sherlock had not disclosed. John was preparing to return to his shifts at Barts’ Trauma Centre, and thus was impatient to have an early dinner. He had specifically warned Sherlock of this as he swept out the door; and yet, here he was, stuck staring at the ticking minutes. Again.

There had been no response to his texts.

No one was more familiar now than John (excepting, possibly, Lady Holmes) with Sherlock’s peculiar brand of tunnel vision. It conveniently obscured from Sherlock’s view such minor distractions as the possibility that others might have an actual job, involving an actual schedule. But rather than rising frustration, tonight John could not avoid a sort of creeping suspicion that Sherlock’s disappointing but otherwise unsurprising delay might have something to do with the pool of dried blood on Mycroft’s parquet floor.

* * *

At the end of Baker Street, a black Mercedes pulled alongside Sherlock as he returned to 221b. A dark-coated man opened the car door and blocked Sherlock’s path.

“Please come with us, Mr. Holmes,” the man said quietly. “Now.” Sherlock studied the figures in the car for a moment, then, with a careless shrug of his shoulders, he allowed the man to guide him politely but firmly into the back of the dark-windowed sedan.

They passed Hyde Park, then Buckingham Palace in sluggish traffic. As they entered Vauxhall Bridge Road and crossed Vauxhall Bridge, Sherlock really had no further need to guess at their destination.

 

* * *

John impatiently looked out the windows down into Baker Street. There was still no sign of Sherlock.

After the ordeal of Sherlock’s kidnaping by the serial killer Jack Ramsay, John had sworn that he would assume the worst -- and act accordingly– if Sherlock failed to appear when and where he was expected. Now, he cursed himself for not forcing Sherlock tell him where he was going as he left; but Sherlock was itching for freedom after his restless confinement, and he himself had been distracted by his modest preparations for preparing to return to work.

He went out into Baker Street and spent a few minutes pacing around the block, hoping to catch him on the way home. He even glanced into a few neighborhood restaurants, thinking he might find Sherlock waiting for him, fending off requests that he order anything more substantial than tea.

After a few circuits of the blocks around the flat, he returned to 221b and opened his laptop a little nervously.

He had promised Sherlock that he wouldn’t do this unless he felt it was truly necessary.

When they purchased new mobiles (losing them in an explosion caused, of all things, by Mycroft), John had insisted on them each procuring same phones with GPS locating, as had ultimately enabled him to (possibly) save Sherlock’s life in the case of the “pink lady” and the wicked cabbie. So that, if Sherlock was still in possession of his mobile, John could track his location without involving Lestrade (or Mycroft) in cumbersome requests for tracking his cell phone pings through the mobile provider.

Sherlock had huffily insisted that John not conduct what he called “surveillance” upon him: “Really, John, isn’t enough that Mycroft has his eyes and ears everywhere? I won’t have you spying on me as well. It’s really too much. I am not a child.” But his protestations had been a mere formality - even Sherlock could no longer ignore the stakes after he had been abducted from within the very walls of 221b.

And so, John’s fingers flew, entering the password and staring as the screen loaded a map of London, and then began a slow intermittent blinking along a southerly track toward the Thames. Toward Vauxhall Bridge. John frowned, puzzled. Sherlock was in a car, a cab, going away from Baker Street? He couldn’t walk that fast and the route was not a tube line, he didn’t think he could necessarily pick up a signal from the underground.

The blinking paused for a moment on the other side of the Thames, just immediately north of the terminus of Vauxhall Bridge.

And vanished.

John clicked furiously, finally slamming his hand on the table, and crying “No!” at the screen, rebooting and trying again. But nothing would bring back the blinking dot.

He pulled up Google satellite images for the location where he had seen the little dot vanish: at or near the Albert Embankment. His heart skipped a few beats as he imagined that the mobile had somehow fallen into the river. But the screen flashed an image of a behemoth white concrete and glass structure on the banks of the Thames. John knew what it was. It was called by some in the intelligence community “Legoland.”

This was the headquarters of MI6 at Vauxhall Cross.

And apparently, Sherlock was inside.

* * *

Sherlock was escorted to an anonymous room without windows that he thought was several floors up, although the swift and silent elevator, disquietingly, had lacked any visible indication of this. He was seated facing a television screen mounted on the wall. Two men stayed with him. They were armed with discreet pistols. Sherlock calculated that he could take them anyway, but that escape from this place would be difficult, if not impossible. It would be quite amusing to try, though. As he contemplated this, calculating the distance to the door, the length of the hallway outside, the number and location of hidden cameras likely in place, the screen blinked to life and filled with the talking head of a grey-haired, flush-faced man, watery pale eyes and jowls overflowing his too-tight shirt collar and school tie.

“Good evening, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock nodded his head regally. “And whom do I have the honor of addressing?”

The man’s face twisted into a grimace. “None of your cheek. I imagine you can guess.”

Sherlock sat up straighter. “I never guess,” he said gravely.

“What can you tell us about there whereabouts of your brother? Where is Mycroft Holmes?” The talking head stared out at Sherlock impassively. But Sherlock saw a sheen of perspiration on his forehead and dampening his collar. It was quite cool in here. He imagined the man’s offices were comfortably cool as well.

He experienced a feeling now. Usually, his feelings were entirely restricted to anything connected with John, and he was becoming somewhat used to those. Not entirely, but he was no longer completely baffled when they appeared.

This feeling, though, was somewhat different and centered somewhere in his chest. It felt a little hollow there. Unable to identify or classify the nature of this unprecedented sensation, he ignored it even as his brain processed the undeniable fact that if this eminence grise was reduced to asking him where Mycroft was, things were very bad indeed.

“If I knew,” Sherlock said, “I’m not sure I’d tell you.”

There was a restless stirring of the men next to him, doubtless intended to impress upon him that his status as a British citizen did not necessarily shield him from interrogation under less comfortable circumstances.

“I am inclined to give you one chance to explain that impertinent remark,” the talking head said evenly, the effect somewhat spoilt by his being forced to dab at perspiration with his handkerchief.

“I should think it obvious that if I knew where Mycroft was, while you did not, that it would follow that Mycroft had excellent reasons for not wanting you to know his location.”

“You were in Mycroft’s house last night. Let’s not play games, shall we. Did you learn anything while you were there?”

“I assume you’ve spoken to his man Morris?”

“Leave that to us, if you please, and kindly answer my question.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, his mind racing. He had decided that Mycroft was almost certainly in Spain, or possibly France, and specifically in the Basque provinces of either. He didn’t think that Mycroft’s superiors in MI6 would stoop to questioning him if they were certain of any of this. But then the talking head sighed.

“Let me be plain. Your brother has disappeared. But we believe we know where he may have been going.” Here the talking head paused and ordered the men to leave the room and stand guard outside so that he could speak privately to Sherlock.

“We captured a text message to your brother’s mobile shortly before he disappeared. He quite obviously destroyed his mobile after receiving the text. The contents of that message lead us to believe that your brother is afraid of . . . some sort of internal security risk. He’s gone off the grid. I want you to know that I trust Mycroft Holmes implicitly. Never had a more talented agent, nor a more honorable one. If he won’t trust us, we’re in the dark, you see. And we can’t afford to be.”

“Then I assume that Mycroft fears something in the way of a mole,” Sherlock observed sharply. “That’s what you are referring to when you say he is afraid of an ‘internal security risk,’ isn’t it? If that is what Mycroft fears, you’d better start investigating now, and go deep. Because Mycroft is never wrong. I don’t see, however, what this has to do with me. If that is your problem, I’ve even less reason to help you.”

“I can’t send an agent after him, you see. He’s damned slippery, and won’t trust anyone now. Except one person, possibly.”

Sherlock was already there. “No. I won’t be sent to spy on my own brother. You aren’t telling me everything. I imagine you actually suspect Mycroft, rather than the other way around, isn’t that it? Or, it’s what you’re afraid of. I won’t be sent to entrap my own brother.”

The talking head looked almost sad. “I can see there’s no point trying to get anything past you. It’s true. Not me; I don’t think that, of course not. But others . . . are not so, shall we say, complacent.”

The screen cut in half and there was an image of a silver coin. Sherlock stood up and examined it. It looked Roman, and had words scratched around the head of a senator, maybe an emperor.

“It says, DIES IRAE. It means, “Day of Wrath.” Where did it come from?” Sherlock asked. He didn’t think the coin necessarily looked genuine. He was not an expert in such things; he presumed MI6 had such experts and had analyzed it. But he didn’t ask. Not yet.

“It was intercepted from a former Ulster Defense League lieutenant.” the talking head said, referring to the armed Loyalist paramilitary group in Northern Ireland.

“But – they’re almost finished with the disarmament process,” Sherlock said. “You’re afraid of a new splinter group?” Even as he said it, his mind was putting together the clues; Mycroft going to the Basque Country, center of the violent separatist movement ETA and its offshoots; and this strange coin, in the hands of a Northern Ireland loyalist. Both groups had publicly declared cease-fires and disarmaments within the past year. Could they be rallying again? He recalled the blood on the floor of Mycroft’s house. Not Mycroft’s, not Lestrade’s, not Morris’.

“You’ve already lost an agent connected with this, haven’t you?” Sherlock said bluntly. “Now Mycroft’s gone. You’re in the dark.”

“You are correct. I will want to know how you knew this, but we can talk about that later. One of our agents was killed in the line of duty in London, two nights ago. We know he made it to your brother’s house before he died. But whatever he knew, passed with him.”

Sherlock recalled Morris volunteering that the blood on the floor hadn’t been Lestrade’s. Lestrade therefore must have been at Mycroft’s house too. Quite possibly when this agent died there. And now Lestrade was gone too.

“You’ll help us.” The talking head declared. It really wasn’t a question any longer.

“I have conditions.”

“You are not in a position to make conditions, Mr. Holmes.”

“I rather thought it was you that was asking for my help. I’m perfectly content to wait for Mycroft to show up in his own good time. Perhaps this man in Ulster has a new hobby to replace terrorism and has taken up coin collecting.”

“You have a unique opportunity to perform a valuable service to Her Majesty’s Government. Don’t pretend, Mr. Holmes, you have never done so before. We are aware of your record, of course. But to respond to your remark, we don’t believe the man was a coin collector.”

“And why is that?” Sherlock asked idly even as he knew precisely what the answer would be, hearing the past tense.

“Because he killed himself the minute it was discovered on his person. Poison. Most unfortunate. What is your condition?”

“That I be allowed whatever resources I deem necessary, without question, objection or delay. I report only to you. And not here. I won’t come here again.”

“When you say resources . . . you aren’t, by any chance, referring to your . . .companion, Captain John Watson, recently of the British Army in Afghanistan?” The watery blue eyes suddenly looked cunning and bored into his. Sherlock sighed impatiently. This dinosaur still was titillated, he supposed, by questions of sexuality and sexual orientation. So tiresome. And beside the point. He wondered how Mycroft tolerated it.

“Where I go, Doctor Watson goes as well. We work together, or not at all. As you obviously know his record we need not discuss his trustworthiness and honour.”

The man nodded. “It is unorthodox . . . but I was told this was what you would say. If he is willing, but he’s your responsibility, mind you.”

Sherlock snorted derisively. “It’s usually the other way around, I don’t mind telling you.” These idiots didn’t believe in heroes, that much was obvious. That was all right. If he knew anything about John Watson, they’d soon feel differently.

“Send a man to 221b with Mycroft’s most recent files. At once.”

“That’s been arranged. One of our men will take you back to Baker Street. The files are in a disk drive. Understand that we will have your flat under the strictest surveillance and security from this moment. If you should make any effort to put those files in the wrong hands —“

“If you chose to waste your time, it’s your affair. You’re going to have to trust us.”

The talking head ignored this obvious misstatement. “When will I have your report?”

“Within 24 hours. If I don’t know anything by then, I probably won’t be able to help you.”

“Then good luck to both of us. Welcome to MI6, Sherlock Holmes.”

* * *

to be continued . . .


	3. An Ungentle Death

 

 

On another floor of MI6 headquarters at Vauxhall Cross, was a spacious office with a panoramic view across the Thames and the skyline of Whitehall. A tall, dark-haired man looked out through the tinted windows, seemingly deep in thought. It appeared he had forgotten the shorter man with the compact build of a boxer standing at attention behind him. The silence persisted longer than was comfortable. Finally, without turning around, the tall man spoke.

“I’ve decided that you’ve proven you deserve to know more. Even if those above me don’t agree. I believe he’s developed . . . radical sympathies. It can happen, you know. It can be rather easy to lose perspective . . . for some. ETA cannot succeed. The Basques’ last chance was against Rome: it’s a little late now. The Spanish have been inept; but they haven’t tried very hard.”

The shorter man said, “I can’t believe it. Mycroft Holmes is the last man to turn revolutionary. The very last, I would have said. Sir.”

“Then what do you make of the last communique he received before leaving England?” said Assistant Director Sammy Singh, holding up a mobile for Agent Rennett to read.

“‘Trust no one’ . . . Bilbao? Sir, that’s an ETA hotbed. Holmes had a rendezvous there? Who sent this?”

“We have reason to believe . . . it’s from ‘Aguirre.’ An ETA lieutenant. A very dangerous man.” Singh turned around. “Can I be sure you’re ready, Rennett? Because I – we – need someone who knows Holmes. Someone who is prepared to take things to the next level.”

Rennett squared his shoulders and carefully wiped any traces of his inner shock from his expression. Likely Singh wasn’t fooled, but he figured it was obligatory.

In any event, he was going to have to readjust his thinking about Mycroft Holmes.

* * *

Mycroft was leaving. If possible, they would meet again in two days’ time, over the French border at the villa of Lestrade’s cousin at La Bastide-Clairence. Although their eyes lingered one final time, Mycroft’s cool, Lestrade’s anguished, they closed the door behind them without further goodbyes.

Each took their separate ways out of the hotel. Lestrade went confidently down to the lobby and paid a small fee to join a tour group, as they had agreed. Mycroft slipped down a service elevator and out through a side entrance into the street behind the hotel. He took a cab along the river into the Casco Viejo, or Old Town.

* * *

The world of truly rare coins was esoteric and exclusive. A more intimate world even than that of art, or rare books. Mycroft had determined that an evaluation of the mysterious coin by a truly world-class expert required a trip to New York, London, or Paris. But Spain was not without its specialists in coinage from Spanish wrecks, also of Rome, of which Spain had been an ancient province.

Agent 009, Robert Roussel, had died bearing the coin inscribed DIES IRAE, “Day of Wrath.” It had been wrapped in newspaper with a handwritten note: “Bilbao.” Mycroft had studied the little note at length. The writing was Robert’s. As such, Mycroft felt confident that his errand was not such a wild shot as it might seem.

The cab passed through increasingly narrow streets along the river. The streets were so crowded and maze-like as to rival the Old Town of Marrakech, streets paved with uneven cobblestones, the grey sky a tiny sliver between looming Baroque-era buildings. Near the Cathedral de Santiago, squeezed between an establishment selling traditional Mardi Gras costumes and a chemist was the little shop of Hermanos Ayala, dealers in rare coins, est. 1902.

 

  
  
[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/ghislainem70/pic/0000pc63/)

 

  
  
  
  
  
Mycroft entered the dim shop to the clang of a little bell hanging from the handle. Dust motes floated before his eyes. It was too quiet. An old-fashioned mahogany and glass case displayed rows of coins, at a glance Mycroft deemed them rather commonplace, for the tourists. The real rarities would be in the back. He called out, and heard a rustling sound from behind a curtained opening.

“We are closed,” said a rough male voice.

The voice did not sound terribly cultured; specifically, it did not sound like the voice of a dealer in rare coins. Mycroft quietly put his hand on his gun.

“I have an appointment with Senor Ayala,” he lied. “I’m expected.”

He slid along the wall to try and get a glimpse behind the curtain. When he did, he saw four sets of feet below the curtain. Two wore black shoes, black trousers. These were straddling two feet, splayed limply on the floor, wearing worn brown shoes.

“Come back tomorrow,” the man’s voice said. Mycroft inched closer to the curtain.

“I can’t come back tomorrow, I’m on my way to Madrid. I can only wait a bit,” he said, deliberately putting a bite of impatience behind it.

The black shoes moved out of his line of vision. He pulled his gun and ducked low, throwing the curtain aside. There was a narrow wooden door here slowly creaking closed. An elderly gentleman was sprawled on the floor, looking at a glance to have been dead quite a bit longer than these past few moments. Mycroft lunged out the door. It gave onto a narrow, twisting alley in dark shadow. There was no one here.

He slid a few feet along the wall, staring into the dark until his eyes adjusted, but there were so many turns and branchings here that it was impossible to know which direction the man had gone.

He had vanished.

* * *

Mycroft returned and shut up the shop, putting down the “Closed” sign and drawing the blinds over the door and windows, and turning the bolt on the door. Then he returned to the back where the old man’s body lay cruelly twisted on the cold floor.

Mycroft felt a flash of pity for the dignified old gentleman having met his end in such an ungentle manner. Someone had stabbed him in the throat. The blood was still somewhat liquid but turning gelatinous. Mycroft put the time of death at no more than an hour. He searched the body and found nothing but his wallet, empty of money.

Mycroft guessed that the intruder had spent some time questioning the old gentleman, and had either learned what he came for and executed him; or killed him because the old man either could not, or would not, tell some secret. His arrival must have prevented the killer from completing a search of the shop; it was undisturbed.

Mycroft hurriedly searched for a hidden safe or compartment where, he speculated, more of the mysterious coins might be found; or, some clue as to who might have acquired the coin Lestrade had brought to him. There was an ancient file cabinet in the back that was filled to choking with dusty old files going back nearly 100 years. He flipped through some of the most recent, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary, and he closed the cabinet, frustrated. There had to be some clue.

He returned to the body, putting on surgical gloves before almost apologetically pulling it upright. Mycroft turned it so he could gain access to the pockets at the back of the old man’s trousers. And here he found something that had been under the body. It was a piece of ordinary paper folded into a small square, and crushed a little as though it had been in someone’s pocket.

Mycroft picked it up and unfolded it.

It was a series of small photographs of very poor resolution, printed in black and white.

Grainy, almost unrecognizable he thought to anyone but himself, they were shots of Greg Lestrade, his face turned toward the light above Mycroft’s front door.

Mycroft thought he could detect that his expression looked hopeful; almost happy.

This gave him a strange sensation, almost exultant, to see Greg standing there, on his very own doorstep, but when he looked at the crimson outline where the paper had touched the very edge of the old man’s pooling blood, a finger of terror plucked his spine and what remained was nothing like joy.

* * *

The next morning, Lestrade finished his lecture on urban riot control with anecdotes and advice gleaned from last month’s riots in London. The Spanish police officers were visibly impressed with Lestrade’s matter-of-fact, self-effacing recitation of his own experiences.

The senior officer, one Captain Riojas, was inviting him to join the men for drinks at the local bar, and then dinner afterward, when a young officer burst upon the group, crying:

“Alert! Everyone alert! There’s been a bombing--- Madrid!”

Everyone rushed to the television and clustered around. It was a subway bombing at the height of the morning rush hour. Lestrade recalled with a sick feeling the last Madrid bombings; also, the 7/7 London underground bombings. Dazed, bleeding citizens emerged from smoking rubble. Lestrade didn’t understand Spanish, but his body felt a shock as he heard the reporter in rapid-fire Spanish repeat several times, “el dia de la ira.”

Dies Irae.

“A new terrorist group claims responsibility.” Captain Riojas shouted over the din of clamoring officers, turning toward Lestrade. “It means, ‘Day of Wrath.’”

But Lestrade was already gone.

Lestrade slowly backed away from the crowd of furious police officers, and slipped out the door, walking down the congested city sidewalks full of people frantically shouting in their mobiles over the disaster. Would this terrible event make Mycroft more, or less, likely to come to the rendezvous in La Bastide-Clairence?

Frustrated and shaken, he found the nearest car agent. He had left England with false identity papers hidden in his suitcase, created more than five years ago for an undercover drugs operation. He had, completely without authority, kept the identity current. Sometimes, Lestrade savored the idea that if he needed to, if he wanted to, he could slip away from his relatively safe and responsible life, go underground, lose himself, become a different person.

Within ten minutes Monsieur Guy Lamont was driving a hired silver Audi fast along the E-70, hugging the Bay of Biscay. The village of La Bastide-Clairance was less than two hours distant. He floored it, the Audi eating up the road.

* * *

Mycroft was not torn by the realization that if he left Bilbao now, he was leaving behind clues still to be uncovered from old Senor Ayala. Yes, he wanted to search the old man’s house. Yes, he was certain, secrets were waiting for him there. The old man hadn’t conducted any significant business in the shop. Apparently, he had operated the old fashioned way: serious collectors were invited up to his house in the Old Town, there to be initiated into the mysteries of the rarest and choicest of the old gentleman’s collection.

The old man’s secrets, whatever they might be, would have to wait. Without regret, Mycroft walked away from the darkened house of Senor Ayala.

He had an urgent appointment in La Bastide-Clairence.

* * *

When Sherlock returned to 221b it was quite late, but he was not surprised to see John still up and pacing the floor in front of the fireplace.

“I can explain — “ Sherlock began, but John’s face was even more furious than he had expected for simply missing their dinner engagement. It was, after all, not an uncommon failing on his part. He paused, curious, his mind running through several lists of Things Sherlock Did To Infuriate John. There were several lists because there were a number of categories, subparts; some had preconditions. . . .as such, he stood still in the middle of the flat ruminating as John became even more aggravated.

“Sherlock. I know where you were. You were at Vauxhall Cross. MI6. You might have told me. It’s to do with Mycroft, isn’t it?”

Sherlock stopped. John was better and better at the Science of Deduction. “Indeed. I suppose you used the location service. But I didn’t know, before. That I was going there.”

John still looked quite upset. There was a definite hard line between his brows. Probably, Sherlock decided, it was just his job at Barts Trauma Centre. John seemed to place an extraordinary premium upon strict adherence to his work schedule. Perhaps it was his military training. John was easily distracted, though.

“Dinner,” he said with bold insincerity.

“Already had it.”

Sherlock was itching to dig into the portable disc drive of Mycroft’s files. He saw John observing the drive, which was in his hand. He raised it. “Mycroft’s files. Let’s get busy, then, shall we?”

John’s face immediately relaxed from barely controlled fury to polite puzzlement. Sherlock never tired of watching the unpredictable flow of emotion cross John’s face.

“We?” John said, casually.

“Ah.” Sherlock realized why John had been worried. He had noticed that sometimes when John seemed angry, he was really worried. “You don’t suppose I would go hunting down my brother without your help, do you?”

John shrugged.

“I told MI6 that we work together, or not at all.” Sherlock said. “You’re going to have to put off going back to Barts after all, John. We’ve been asked to find Mycroft. We’re to bring him back into the fold. Back to MI6.”

Sherlock put a finger to his lips to indicate silence. From now on, the flat was almost certainly bugged.

John looked steadily at Sherlock. They understood one another perfectly.

There was no way they were going to betray Mycroft to MI6.

They booted up the disc drive and got to work.

* * *

The next day, there was a bombing in Dublin. No group claimed responsibility, but a grafitti-like banner was left outside the smoking rubble of a train station. It read, “Day of Wrath.”

* * *

Lestrade, alias Guy Lamont, pushed the huge iron key into the door of a quaint whitewashed, red-timbered villa in the woods outside Bastide La-Clairence. The little town near the Spanish border was designated one of the “plus beau” (most beautiful) villages in France. Lestrade’s cousin Edouard had left the villa empty after the Basque’s bombing of Alain Ducasse’s restaurant had forced its closure. He now returned only for holidays.

 

  
  
  
  
The villa was furnished with simple French country style. But Lestrade was in no mood to relax. He put his things away hurriedly in the bedroom, then on second thought took his gun and made sure it was loaded. After restlessly waiting around the quiet house, he went on a walk around the grounds.

The woods beyond the property were green, lush, and filled with birdsong. Lestrade hiked higher and higher as the ground rose to hills above the town, and he could look down upon the red tiled roofs from here. The villa looked like a toy. The air was fresh and almost against his will he started to feel more relaxed. Mycroft would be here soon. They would make plans, plans that made sense, plans that didn’t involve being forced apart, their lives at risk. He had never cared about personal risk before; Lestrade was never reckless, a model officer, in fact; but now everything felt different.

He wanted more than endless nights alone in his flat or out at his local with neighborhood mates; occasional lighthearted flings that went precisely nowhere because that was all he wanted. Because for the first time, his headlong rush into whatever was happening between him and Mycroft felt reckless and right and true. It had been a long time, maybe never, actually, since he had ever felt like this.

The afternoon was fading. Time to go. He wanted to be there when Mycroft arrived. He trudged back down the hill.

Behind him, a twig snapped.

He paused.

It could be an animal, he thought. As a Londoner, he wasn’t terribly familiar with wilderness sounds.

He walked faster, his ears straining. He looked around, seeing nothing but green shadows.

This time there was definitely a sound, more than a twig; a rustling.

A footstep.

Lestrade dove quickly and as quietly as possible into some high bushes, heedless of thorns. He held his breath. For a long time there was silence, but then there was the slightest rustle and crackle and he knew he was hearing a man. Not an animal. A man trying to walk very quietly upon the dead leaves.

He gently, so very gently, pulled out his gun, thankful that it made no sound when he released the safety. The light was almost gone now; the sun was setting fast and the trees cast long skeletal shadows. The sun’s warmth disappeared, replaced by a rising cool, damp chill. Here and there, a mist formed. He strained his eyes in the dark through the branches of his hiding place, but could see nothing. His legs strained with crouching stiffly for so long without moving. Soon, he would have to shift position.

And whoever was out there would hear it. He tried to hold the position longer. His legs shook, then trembled with the effort.

He shifted and stood partially upright and a huge crack sounded out and exploded somewhere behind his ear. The man was trying to shoot him.

Trying to kill him.

He dodged, ducking, between bushes and trees, climbing under hanging branches, trying hard to be quiet but knowing he was failing. Another shot rang out but he hit the ground. It missed.

Deep instinct took him over as darkness finally enveloped the wood. He waited, panting silently in the mist on damp ground. The brilliant moon cast a ghostly light that reminded him of the silvery light of the hotel room in Bilbao, and he knew then was never going to let anything take what he had. He was getting out of this wood alive.

It seemed hours that he lay frozen there, his ears straining. Nighttime creatures were stirring in the wood. His blood froze at the humanlike scream that he realized must be an owl.

Finally, he heard the stealthy footfall again and saw the dull glint of the barrel of a rifle.

He ignored the wild thumping of his heart and the roaring in his ears and took careful aim.

His bullet flew, and there was an agonized scream and the sound of a body crashing to the ground. Lestrade got off another shot but knew it was wide. He tried a look between the branches of his hiding place and thought he saw a dark figure crumpled, some yards away. It wasn’t moving.

He waited.

After he was sure the figure wasn’t going to make a move, he crawled out of his hiding placeand cautiously approached the body. But before he could examine it, there were flashlights coming up the hill. He kicked the man’s fallen rifle a little farther away from his hand for good measure, then ran as fast as could back up the hill, away from the advancing lights.

* * *

Lestrade circled around the back of the hill, and finally around the back way into the village of Bastide La-Clairence. Almost every street was dark, the houses shuttered for the night. No one noticed him passing.

He lost himself a few times in the unfamiliar streets, but finally came to the lane leading to the villa.

Now it occurred to him that perhaps, whoever had come after him in the wood had a confederate lying in wait, watching the villa. And what if Mycroft was here, had walked into a trap?

He suppressed paranoid feelings of being watched, vulnerable. Slowly, carefully, he made his way along the back of the property to one of the back windows, but they were all firmly locked.

He was almost in a panic now to get inside. He looked around frantically and grabbed a rock and broke the windowpane, pushing one hand inside to open the window. But as he crawled through, his arm was yanked by a strong, black gloved hand and he crashed to the floor. He rolled and landed hard on his back but his gun was braced between both hands, ready to fire.

The tall figure outlined in darkness held up black gloved hands, one hand holding a gun with a long silencer.

“Please don’t shoot,” the familiar voice said.

Lestrade dropped his gun and crushed him in a desperate embrace, heedless of the fact that he was covered with dirt, leaves, and bloody scratches.

“Never again,” he said roughly.

Mycroft held him hard.

“Never,” he promised.

To be continued . . .


	4. David and the Sybil

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/ghislainem70/pic/0000tz41/)

A line of men made their way in the moonlight down a mountain sheep track until they reached a tiny stone chapel in a wood. There was a cemetery here. Silently, reverently, they paid their respects to the ancient dead.

One man, wiry and dark, with a weathered face from which flashing black eyes shone, placed his hands upon one of the stone markers, worn and covered with symbols.

“Brothers, we ask blessings from our brave fathers. They have lain here since the euskal herriterak, the Basque, were free. Since before the Church. The old goddess, Mari, took them home. They have waited for us all these long centuries to be free again. Swear, all of you, nothing will stop us this time.”

Each man stepped forward and placed his hands on the ancient stones.

“Are we really ready? We need more men, more money, more – everything,” one man said querulously.

The others looked away contemptuously.

Their leader said, “Bat izatea hobe, bi ixto egitea baino. (It is better to have one, than be waiting for two.)”

Another man asked the question all of them were burning to know:

“When, Aguirre? When will be the Day of Wrath?”

Aguirre the leader, looked at each of them in turn. “All Souls’ Day.”

The mens’ eyes widened. November 2. All Souls’ Day. It was the most holy day of the year in Basque country. It was the day for honoring the ancestors. It was the day of the Catholic mass for souls in purgatory.

But in ancient times, it was the feast day of the old god Lelhunnus, The Bright One, whom the Romans took to be Mars, god of war.

“Burdina berotan jo behar da. (Iron must be hammered when it is hot.)” Aguirre pronounced.

There were grim, determined nods all around.

It was a good day.

* * *

“I shot a man, in the wood,” Lestrade said. He was already throwing his few things back in his bag.

Mycroft accepted this with imperturbable sangfroid, and pulled Lestrade away from the window while he closed the shutters.

“Someone was coming, there were flashlights.”

“Perhaps the police; perhaps . . . not,” Mycroft said. “We should see the body, of course. But it’s too late. We need to leave. They know you are in this house.”

“I have a car.”

“They know that too. Nothing to be done about that now.”

“But — Mycroft, how did you get here?”

Mycroft was pulling him towards a back door. “A car. I got rid of it and walked the rest.” Lestrade was mildly astonished. They drew their guns and threw the door open. The silver Audi was parked in the drive.

In the corner of his eye, Lestrade saw a flash of light in the wood. “They’re coming.”

“Give me your keys,” Mycroft said. Lestrade didn’t hesitate, he put the car keys in Mycroft’s gloved hand and they ducked and ran, diving into the car. Mycroft fired it up, headlamps off, and floored it, navigating by the bright light of the moon.

Soon headlamps appeared following close behind. They came closer.

Mycroft pushed the Audi faster, making a murmur of approval as it responded easily.

Lestrade twisted around, watching the headlamps with his gun still drawn as they slowly grow smaller, then disappeared. The sped down dark twisting roads through the Basque countryside until at length, they turned down a rocky unpaved road, climbing higher and higher until they were forced to stop at a gate. Mycroft reached out and pressed a code into a digital pad. The gates swung open and closed behind them.

They approached a huge villa in outlined in darkness. Another digital pad unlocked the front door, and then they were inside. All within was dark and silent, and their footsteps sounded loud on the stone floor. Their hearts were racing from the flight from La Bastide-Clairence.

“What is this place?”

“A safe place. We are in Saint-Jean-de-Luz. We are near Biarritz. Just at the French border with Spain.”

Lestrade looked out into the darkness. “So far, we’ve not been safe, Mycroft. Somehow, someone found me. How?”

“I intend to find out.” Mycroft knew he should show Lestrade the bloodstained photographs from his doorstep. His fingers closed around the folded paper in his pocket, which he had held almost as a talisman until Lestrade came back from the woods. Now that they needed to stay together, to act as a team, it was right that Lestrade should know everything.

He almost resolved to do it. From the very beginning, he had promised Lestrade that he would be honest. He had amazed himself, even as he said it. He had never told his secrets to anyone. Not ever.

The beginning. That was what this was, for Greg. But not, strictly speaking, for him. He had concealed his feelings for a very long time, kept them secret. That was a kind of dishonesty.

His other secrets, well, he imagined that the single night Lestrade had spent in his house had told him much of what he needed to know.

But not everything.

If Lestrade knew everything, would he stay?

* * *

“It’s a tremendous help, that bombing in Dublin,” Sherlock said, staring intently at the computer screen. “It changes everything.”

They had been at it for hours, and at this, John finally threw one of the books in aggravation. “A tremendous help? Sherlock, can you try, just try, for me, to pretend – just pretend, mind you – all right? To appreciate that this is a tragedy?” The images of the wounded and dead from the Madrid and Dublin bombings had so consumed the news that John had finally turned the television off.

A curl of the lip showed that this had in fact been an ill-timed exercise in light humor on Sherlock’s part. He had already learned that this sort of remark was not good. Insensitive. John had taught him that. Now he also knew it wasn’t humorous. At least not to John. He filed away this apparent failure as still possibly useful data, not to be deleted.

“But we would have thought it was just ETA, John. Now we have another group. Unless ETA is operating in Ireland for some reason; that would be fascinating. It’s not impossible. Last year ETA was caught running drugs from Venezuela to West Africa, raising money for the cause. They’ve cooperated with FARC, you know: the old Columbian terror group - to plan kidnappings to raise funds. A pooling of efforts – perhaps, these bombings are like that. Reciprocity, John. But how? And why now?”

John thought about this. He had never been deployed to Northern Ireland. But more than few of his friends from Paratrooper training had had their first deployment there. And lost their lives. And from what he had learned from Mycroft’s files, ETA were every bit as tenacious. And dangerous.

“Then, there is Al Qaeda — rumors that they are lending ETA aid. After 9/11, men accused of helping plan the attacks were arrested in Spain. One of those men had ties to ETA. And isn’t it interesting, John, that both the armed paramilitary groups in Spain and Ireland have announced cease-fires in the past year?”

“Classic feint,” John agreed. He pulled firsts in his military strategy courses in Army officer’s school. “Put the enemy at ease; a false truce. Putting you in a position to launching a massive assault when they least expect it.”

Mycroft’s files were so complex and abtruse that even Sherlock was challenged to unravel them. The kaleidoscopic images refused to resolve into focus, remaining fragmented, tumbling. DIES IRAE. The Day of Wrath.

“The Catholics got rid of it, you know,” Sherlock mused. John waited.

“‘The day of wrath, that day will dissolve the world in ashes, as foretold by David and the sybil.’ The Catholics thought it too gloomy. The Second Vatican Council said that the Dies Irae ‘overemphasized fear, judgment and despair.’” Sherlock was staring at a photograph of the DIES IRAE coin. “The Dies Irae is the last music by Mozart. A Requiem Mass, written on his very own deathbed.”

Sherlock pulled out his violin and began scraping. Slowly and dolorously, Mozart’s Requiem filled 221b.

John sat still now and almost held his breath so as not to disturb the flow of notes. When Sherlock played actual music, which was almost never, he played with such technical brilliance and intensity of feeling that John, even knowing almost nothing of classical music, was always deeply moved.

 

Now, he realized that this was Sherlock’s offering to the dead of Dublin and Madrid, making it clearer than any words that Sherlock knew what tragedy was.

* * *

“Where – how — did you get this place?” Lestrade asked. It was extraordinary: a substantial, handsomely furnished 18th century villa set among olive trees on a hillside. They stood on a terrace overlooking a bay. It was still dark. The churning sea glimmered not far below and the sound of the waves floated up. Lights from fishermen’s boats, he surmised, bobbed here and there.

“I arranged it myself . . .if I needed deep cover in the Basque country. No one knows. Except you.” Mycroft said.

Lestrade thought about that. “Deep cover. It’s not terribly inconspicuous, Mycroft.”

“No. That’s exactly the point. I’m very conversant in Euskara, you see; but even I couldn’t hope to pass in the villages. No, I need to look like a wealthy business man, who made his fortune somewhere else, and returned to the old country to spend it. This place is a holiday resort; just the thing.”

“You don’t look particularly Basque,” Lestrade observed dubiously. “You’re awfully tall. And your colouring – ”

“There are fair Basques, actually. But my height is a problem: I’m aware of it. And I’ve a story to account for it, if questions are asked. And they will be, very soon. Tomorrow, in fact.”

Mycroft explained his plan. They carefully rehearsed what they would do, what they would say. When they were done, Lestrade leaned over the stone balustrade, watching the waves, trying to will the fear of tonight’s events to just melt away. Mycroft looked too, but then pulled him gently away towards the house. Lestrade saw that his face was slightly, just so very slightly, shadowed by trouble.

“What is it?”

Mycroft looked surprised that Lestrade had caught him out. Under any other circumstance, he would have just said, “nothing,” and tried to divert attention away from himself. He was very, very good at diverting attention from himself. But that wouldn’t do. Lestrade looked at him, expectant, with that warm, open expression that drew him so, and Mycroft thought just maybe, it would feel good to tell Greg . . . things. Things he had never told to another soul. Things he didn’t even tell himself.

“My father,” he said simply. “He loved the sea. He used to take us there, to the seashore. To Whitby, mostly; Scarborough, too. The sound . . . it always makes me think of him.”

“Good memories, then?”

“Very good—“ Mycroft said, but found he couldn’t say more than this, after all. “It’s why I can’t bear the sound, really.”

Lestrade let himself be drawn inside, and Mycroft closed the terrace doors, shutting out the waves.

“The first time we were together,” Lestrade said, drawing him close, “was in that hotel suite. Overlooking the sea. Remember? And now . . . we’re here. And it’s beautiful, if you forget why we’re here, together. Maybe . . . you should try to think of that. When you hear the sound. D’you think that might help?”

Mycroft kissed him then, softly, but Lestrade wouldn’t let it end until he became dizzy with desire, amazed that this was his, Lestrade was giving everything to him, no games, nothing held back. He had been playing games so long that it felt like the wildest of risks to be playing no game at all.

“Yes, Greg,” he whispered. Mycroft touched Greg’s face where the branches had scratched at it, making it bleed. “How close did he get?” He asked, keeping his voice steady as always. As if he could handle even this.

Greg tried to look as calm as Mycroft obviously was about such things. Lestrade, even after all these years, could count on one hand the number of time anyone had ever shot at him, let alone try to kill him.

“Close enough,” he said. He knew this was real, there were forces that did not want them to live through this.

“I’m never letting you out of my sight again,” Mycroft said with cool poise, and then he was pinning his arms back with those long arms of his own. Lestrade thought it almost sounded like a threat, and wondered briefly whether he should perhaps even be afraid. Probably. He recalled the gleaming tools of assassination in a steel cabinet Mycroft’s London house. Now he knew that one would be well advised to fear Mycroft. But he didn’t try to break free. He wasn’t afraid at all.

“And do you know what got me through, out in those woods?” He asked, as Mycroft looked into his eyes, listening intently. “You. Us. So let’s not waste it.” It might have been a challenge, because Mycroft was holding his arms so tightly now behind his back, bending him a little. It made him shiver and he saw that Mycroft could see it. Mycroft kissed him again, and this time it was no longer gentle. He finally pulled away and took him upstairs, to a sparsely furnished bedroom with an old wrought iron bed. Mycroft laid him firmly down, then reached to open the balcony doors, and the sound of the waves, stronger with the incoming tide, rushed in.

Mycroft stopped to just look at Lestrade laying there, watching him right back. When Mycroft lay beside him, Lestrade’s eyes closed and when Mycroft started to pull off his clothes to find the warm skin beneath, he sucked in his breath in anticipation. Mycroft was slowly and deliberately stroking his chest, feeling it rise and fall faster. His hand moved downward, even more slowly, until Lestrade’s hips bucked just a little. Mycroft’s lips might have curled just slightly in satisfaction, but then he was bending to remove Lestrade’s belt, pulling it between his fingers. Lestrade remembered his arms, pinned, and gasped, “Come on, then. Do it, don’t stop.” Just like that, Mycroft thought he had never been so dangerously close to losing control. “Oh, I will,” He whispered, trying to keep his voice steady. It was almost impossible. “But – not here.” Lestrade was trying to pull his hand down to his swollen cock now. “It’s not safe if . . .we had to run. But when this is over . . .”

He threw the belt to the floor where it slapped the stone loudly and he held Lestrade’s hands higher till they grasped the iron bedposts and just watched as the heat and need rose in his eyes. But he didn’t give in; he spent a long time kissing and stroking the torn and bleeding scratches all over Lestrade’s strong body, wanting to memorize every inch, ignoring him when he urged him to take more. He was gratified that Lestrade didn’t let go, but instinctively understood to hold the iron posts tight to brace himself when he finally took him in his mouth, making it last with all of his considerable skill, drawing him closer and closer to that higher place where they would find ecstasy, but surprised by being unable to force himself to prolong it into that luscious place where anticipation became tinged with the agony of denial, and with strong sure caresses brought them both to the peak and over, shuddering with exquisite pleasure as Lestrade finally let himself go and then pulled him up, kissing him deeply, while the waves crashed below and finally lulled him to sleep as Mycroft watched.

Until this was over, he would never close his eyes while Greg slept.

As he waited, he listened to the sea, and he knew now that the sound would never again make him sad.

* * *

Sherlock and John rode a swift, silent elevator to the very top of a glass office tower in Canary Wharf. When Sherlock had told John they were going to a consultation with an expert on rare and ancient coins, he had expected them to stop in Mayfair or Knightsbridge. But the many layers of security afforded by the gleaming glass tower spoke for themselves.

The expert, Alec Mortimer, was a dapper older gentleman with crisply combed white hair, affecting heavy black spectacles. He was an authority on coinage of ancient Rome, with emphasis on Rome’s far-flung colonies.

“If we show you this coin, you must understand that I can tell you nothing of its provenance,” Sherlock said. He did not mention that the coin was implicated in a terrorist plot, saying to John in the cab, “Who knows, John, whether this man Mortimer might not be involved himself? That’s the trouble – anyone expert enough to know anything about this particular coin might well be the one who is supplying them. Let him think we’re hoping to make a fortune on it at auction. No more than that.”

Now Mortimer was examining the coin through a loupe. He made colorful exclamations of admiration.

“This is very, very nice,” he said. “I don’t suppose you would like to tell me how you came by it?”

Sherlock smiled serenely and shook his head. John did too.

“Ah, well. In any event, this particular coin is a copy. Sorry, boys. I hate to disappoint you. But it is definitely a copy of the genuine article. Let me show you something.”

He pulled a large black notebook from a shelf, and flipped through a few plastic-encased pages. “Here it is.” He pointed to a photograph of an ancient silver coin.

 [](http://pics.livejournal.com/ghislainem70/pic/0000w63g/)

 

"This is the silver Eid Mar denarius. The Ides of March. Very few truly fine examples exist. After the assassination of Julius Caesar, Brutus himself minted these coins to pay his troops. It was common in those days, you know, for military commanders to mint their own coinage. Brutus wanted to remind the soldiers that they fought for the Republic of Rome; for freedom.

“These symbols here, on the reverse, are the liberty cap. It is an ancient symbol of Roman freedom. The two daggers, of course, reference the assassination of Julius Caesar. It is inscribed “EID MAR,” for the Ides of March. The obverse bears the head of Brutus himself. This, I’m afraid, was taken as ill-omened. It smacked of raising oneself up as a king, or deity – precisely the sort of hubris that Brutus claimed justified the assassination of Caesar. Not long after, Brutus committed suicide.”

They stared at the photograph. It was very like the DIES IRAE coin.

“Someone has taken a rather poor copy of the Ides of March coin, and marked it up differently to read, DIES IRAE. Your copy is so poor that the dagger and helmet are not really in relief. But it is clear what the source was. The head is definitely Brutus. Very interesting.” He looked up at them, taking off his glasses, revealing eyes considerably sharper than they had seemed before.

“I don’t suppose you want to tell me what this is about,” he said quietly.

“A curiousity, no more,” Sherlock said. “I suppose being a copy, it is worthless. That is very disappointing, isn’t it,” he said to John. John tried to look terribly disappointed.

“I wouldn’t go that far. I imagine that, to whoever made it, or whoever caused it to be made, it is worth a great deal. But you’re right. In itself, it’s worth no more, really, than the alloy. It’s not even pure silver. A curiousity, as you say.”

Sherlock put the coin back into an envelope which he thrust into his coat pocket.

“Tell, me, what is a coin like this worth? A good one,” John asked, pointing to the photograph of the Ides of March denarius.

Alec Mortimer smiled gleefully, rubbing his hands together. “It’s so interesting that you are here to ask about this today. There was an auction. Just last week. In California. It went for half a million US dollars.”

They turned to go.

“Gentlemen, wait a minute.”

They turned. Mortimer’s gaze was shrewd.

“If I were you, I would be asking myself: what does the person who struck this coin mean to do, to achieve freedom? Because that’s what the Ides of March meant to the conspirators. And I would think that he, or they, believe it will happen on the Dies Irae. The Day of Wrath. I do hope you’ve an idea when that day might be.”

Sherlock and John looked at each other and tried to conceal their dismay. Because so far, they had no clue at all.

To be continued . . .


	5. The Line of Fire

ALL SOULS’ DAY, CHAPTER FIVE. The Line of Fire.

 

John was becoming alarmed.

Sherlock had lain flat out on the sofa, alternating between staring without blinking at the stains on the ceiling and closing his eyes and lying still as a corpse, for these past ten hours.

Sherlock’s intense focus upon Mycroft’s files had rendered him into a state that anyone who did not know Sherlock as well as John did would consider bordering on catatonic. John knew, however, that he was sifting, collating, evaluating, rejecting and reconstructing fragments and threads of data from Mycroft’s files, files so complex that a complete absence of stimuli was necessary for even Sherlock to attempt to unravel them.

It was almost time for Sherlock to report to MI6.

It was understood, of course, that whatever Sherlock might tell MI6, it would not be the whole truth. John understood, too, about the necessity of half-truths from his years in the Army, not to mention Spartan.

But Sherlock gave no sign of having reached any conclusion about the location of his missing brother. What he was giving a sign of, now that he was finally stirring – sitting up, pounding at lightspeed on his laptop, making frightening growling sorts of sounds in his throat –-- was something that in lesser men might be called sheer panic. Never having observed such a thing in Sherlock, John backed away and tried not to do anything that would set him off.

Something about his brother being completely missing was disturbing Sherlock in a way John had never seen before, and was starting to hope very much he never saw again.

Sherlock was literally pulling at his hair in frustration now. When with a swipe of his hand he spun his laptop away, John leaped up and caught it before it crashed to the floor.

“Sherlock, stop now,” he said gently. “It’s enough. We’ll find him. What’s your best –“ he stopped the forbidden word, ‘guess’, from carelessly dropping from his lips “hypothesis as to where he would go? Surely you must have some idea by now?”

Sherlock’s face was white and strained and his eyes did not settle upon John, but drifted to somewhere beyond. He was still processing. At this point, John thought enough was enough. “Sherlock,” he said more firmly, trying to suppress his own stretched nerves.

What would happen, he thought briefly, if Sherlock couldn’t find Mycroft? He buried that unworthy thought instantly. Of course Sherlock would find him.

“San Sebastian,” Sherlock pronounced dramatically, rolling the syllables as though announcing the solution to a particularly knotty problem of mathematics or physics, meriting at the very least, Nobel prize. His entire demeanor had changed in the blink of an eye, one of those rapidfire transformations that had been somewhat unsettling when he first knew Sherlock. Now John was used to living in the eye of the storm. So, he was really pleased with himself, John observed with relief. That meant that whether or not “San Sebastian” was their target destination, Sherlock had a very good idea where they ought to be going. “John, hand me my mobile?”

John didn’t roll his eyes. It was at least framed in the tenor of a question rather than a command. He had anticipated this, and gently handed it over without protest. Sherlock was, at least, firing off his own texts.

“They are sending someone over to ‘debrief’ me now. Us,” Sherlock said generously. John just nodded, knowing full well that he had contributed absolutely nothing to the hunt for Mycroft Holmes.

Within mere seconds, there was a quiet knock on the door. John answered it to a muscular, compact man, built like a boxer, he thought: close-cropped dark hair, dark inexpressive eyes. A familiar and particular look about him. John decided he reminded him of certain types he had come across in Afghanistan – men whose mission was not spoken of, whose names were clearly not their own, who passed through and were not seen again.

“Agent Rennett,” he announced bluntly. “I’m to debrief Mr. Holmes. Now.” He pushed his way through the door as though sensing John’s instinctive resistance.

Sherlock didn’t bother to get up. He was still absorbed in whatever fragments he was analyzing on his laptop. Rennett stood over him impassively.

“Haven’t got all night, Holmes,” he said finally. “Have you anything to tell our . . .superiors?”

Sherlock did not even glance up at the man, clearly having gleaned whatever he thought vital about Rennett from his frighteningly comprehensive peripheral vision. “Yes,” he drawled. “I do. I believe that Mycroft has gone to Spain. That much is obvious. Specifically, to San Sebastian. I have identified three probable locations where he might seek to meet with . . . individuals associated with ETA. Because of course, he’s going to the source. San Sebastian, being a key ETA stronghold.”

“But, the cease-fire,” Rennett observed. Sherlock frowned at what he regarded as an irrelevant fact.

“Cease-fire. By whom? ETA has been extorting protection money from the businesses of San Sebastian for generations. They have safe havens in France, of course; but to earn their daily bread, they have to maintain their presence on the ground in San Sebastian. . . .I’ve examined Mycroft’s files and it is mentioned very seldom,” he said.

“As such,” Rennett pursued, “he wasn’t terribly interested in San Sebastian? I thought that ETA was making an effort to put a clean face on San Sebastian. Expand tourism, restore public confidence,” he said. San Sebastian, on the northern coast of Spain, had been plagued by ETA, the streets dominated by roving separatist youths attacking tourists, and the businesses groaned under the extortionate demands for protection money. Now, with the cease-fire, it was thought that San Sebastian was entering a new golden age.

“Of course they are. Rather clever, much more money to skim off a successful tourist economy. They want to be Dublin, not Belfast. We’ll need a substantial amount of cash. Twenty thousand pounds to start,” Sherlock said boldly. Rennett didn’t blink but pulled out his mobile and typed a moment.

“You’ll find Mycroft Holmes, then,” Rennett said, “ make sure he puts us in the picture of whatever he has learned about this ‘Day of Wrath’ scare, bring him to us, back to London, yes?”

“I take my orders from the Director, I believe. I won’t discuss them with you. I’m not prepared to say any more than I’ve told you at present, and it will have to do for you, and for him.”

“When are you leaving?”

“Tonight, if we can.”

“Are you asking for transport.”

“No.”

At this, Sherlock’s frosty gaze fell at last fully upon Agent Rennett, who blinked and turned to leave. Something about him raised John’s hackles. Their eyes locked. Rennett’s had no more warmth than a snake, John thought.

Rennett departed and John went to pack. Any real conversation about what Sherlock had learned would have to wait until they had privacy. They both knew that wasn’t inside 221b. Within half an hour, a different, anonymous man had delivered their cash. They took a cab.

“Heathrow,” Sherlock announced. But before they left the city precincts, Sherlock told the cabbie to pull over. Sherlock pulled John from the cab and they sprinted down into a tube station, where after several changes they arrived at Waterloo Station. The Eurostar high speed train for Paris was just departing. Sherlock flourished two false passports, and they purchased their standard tickets with cash and pushed to the back of train.

They took their seats and John surreptitiously examined his false passport. His name was Roger Trent. Sherlock was Cedric Neale.

“Cedric?” John whispered.

“We lost him. Probably,” Sherlock said quietly into John’s ear.

“Who was it?” But then he realized he knew who. Sherlock nodded once, satisfied that John was keeping up.

* * *

Mycroft watched Lestrade waken, his hand feeling for the gun he had left under the pillow. He pulled it out and laid it beside him, and then he smiled up at Mycroft, a brash smile that did strange things to the pit of Mycroft’s stomach and which he realized he was going to have to ignore entirely if they were going to leave this room. Ever. He wondered for the hundredth time if he had not done a very rash thing in bringing Lestrade here.

Lestrade’s eyes took in the fact that the bed beside him was undisturbed. He felt it with his hands; the sheets were cool, not warm.

“You didn’t sleep,” he accused.

Mycroft didn’t say anything. He didn’t know how to explain his vigil, his need to watch over Lestrade, keep him safe, guard him like . . . well, like his most prized possession. It was critical that Lestrade not perceive this. In truth, he had never before wanted to possess anyone; to the contrary. Things, yes, very much; he was a serious collector. Also, experiences . . . he collected those, too. Mycroft preferred his romantic associations to be brief, if possible challenging – within the limits of his own control – and most of all, disposable. Hardly romantic at all; quite the opposite, he fully realized.

Everything about this was different. The feeling of quiet warmth, and a sort of completeness, alien and thrilling, filled him just being in Lestrade’s presence. However was he going to stay sharp enough to get them out of this alive when all he wanted to do was fall into bed and lose himself completely with this man? Losing himself, now that he had started to actually permit such a thing, was quickly becoming an imperative.

He turned away to hide his confusion. “I didn’t,” he agreed, “But you’re not to worry about it. I can do without sleep for at least three days. If I deem it necessary. I’m quite all right. We have a luncheon appointment. You do remember our plan, yes?”

Lestrade slid out of bed and marched over and turned him right around, and planted a warm, generous kiss on his mouth, just enough to make him a little dizzy before Lestrade pulled away, the grin even broader and more dazzling now. He was quite enjoying the slightly bemused expression on Mycroft’s face. In fact, he was determined to induce it quite a bit more often than he had had a chance to, up until now.

“Champion. Let’s go get these bastards,” Lestrade said, wandering from the bedroom wearing nothing at all but the gun in his hand.

* * *

At a seaside restaurant in St.-Jean-De-Luz, Mycroft Holmes in his new identity as Felix Vasco, was loudly admiring the view, the sea air, the excellence of the food, in a brash American voice completely unlike Mycroft’s usual cultured and restrained tones.

Lestrade was impressed. Here was a theatrical talent he had never suspected. Even Mycroft’s face seemed reshaped; something in the set of his jaw and the look in his eye made him seem harder, cynical. Lestrade was supposed to be a sort of shady business agent, using his Guy Lamont identity. The idea was that Mycroft was a successful businessman from America, of Basque heritage, looking to recover some lost properties of his illustrious family as well as invest some of his fortune in business opportunities in the old country.

“Take this restaurant, for example, Lamont. Could you find a better view anywhere?” They were seated on a patio overlooking the sparkling blue bay. Lestrade shook his head. You really couldn’t. The restaurant was an old Art Deco era building, neglected and crumbling. “They aren’t taking advantage of what they’ve got here. What a waste. I’d buy it myself, do it over, put a nightclub on top . . . what d’you think?”

Lestrade’s job was to be the devil’s advocate. “I’ve seen much better properties, sir, if you’re wanting seriously to look at restaurants. I thought you were interested in boats today, anyway.”

“What do you reckon it would take to really do this place up right?” Mycroft boomed. “I think three million would about do it.”

“Dollars or euros?”

“Don’t be dense, Lamont. Euros.”

A nearby waiter, a startlingly handsome fellow of apparent Algerian descent, was so diligently attending to Lestrade’s coffee and water glass that it was becoming distracting. At every opportunity he flashed a white-toothed smile and melting brown eyes at Lestrade. He did not smile at Mycroft. Mycroft frowned. Lestrade paid him minimal notice, but smiled easily back, causing the young man to gift him with such a look of frank invitation that Mycroft was sorely pressed not to leap from the table and throw the insufferable wretch under the wheels of a passing bus. But then Lestrade looked into his eyes with perfect understanding and reassurance, and the moment passed.

They spent another hour leisurely over their luncheon, talking loudly about the many things that Mycroft wanted to buy so that he could have the pride of investing in the Basque Country, the land of his fathers. Mycroft noted with satisfaction that for the last half hour or so of this vulgar discourse, a figure had been listening to them intently from the shadows of the kitchen door.

Boldly, as they rose to leave, he said, “You know, it’s still my dream that the Basque will achieve a separate state. They’ve not given up. All this talk of a cease fire is well and good, of course. But they need to stay focused. Eyes on the prize,” Mycroft said, fully aware of the complete inappropriateness of the quotation as applied to a terrorist movement.

“Sir, we need to get down to the docks if you want to take a look at that boat,” Lestrade said.

Mycroft carelessly threw down a wad of cash which he unwound from a huge roll of bills.

* * *

At the dock, row after row of sleek yachts bobbed. Languid jet-setters lounged on the decks, house music booming. But they passed the yachts by, stopping instead at a fast-looking motorboat, in the cigarette or “go-fast” style favored by drug smugglers and speed enthusiasts. The seller’s agent was waiting for them.

“You like to go fast, sir?” The agent smiled obsequiously.

“I like to go fast, yes. Very, very fast,” Mycroft said. They climbed into the narrow boat and he was examining the controls. “Horsepower?”

“ Twin engine, 490 horsepower. Each. It has some interesting modifications, let me show you.” The agent pulled open the engine compartment and Mycroft bent over to admire the beauty of the powerful engines.

Lestrade was watching a group of men that seemed to be paying too much attention to them from the docks. He fingered his gun. Then they were pulling out into the Bay of Biscay now, thundering along, so fast that they seemed to barely skim the surface. Boats like these could escape detection by just about anything but a helicopter overhead. The huge wake splashed him, and Lestrade almost wanted to laugh, it was so exhilarating. They were already almost halfway across the bay.

But then he saw something that wasn’t funny at all.

Mycroft had his hands around the boat agent’s neck from behind, and was probably going to kill him, and it had happened so fast that Lestrade hadn’t seen it. The boat started to spin and he lunged for the wheel.

“He just wants a meeting,” the man gasped, red-faced, struggling for breath.

“I don’t like how he issues his invitations,” Mycroft said calmly. “He has insulted me. I don’t like that.” He was still in his character, and Lestrade realized suddenly that he was quite terrifying. And he didn’t need any help from Lestrade. Not in the slightest.

“Just a meeting. If you want to do business in St.-Jean-De-Luz, you’re going to have to meet him. One way or another. Be reasonable,” the agent gasped.

“I ought to throw you overboard,” Mycroft said. The look in his eyes said very clearly that he just might.

“Go ahead. But when you get back to shore, believe me, they’ll be waiting. No matter where you land.”

Now another boat was approaching fast. Very fast. The agent smiled. “Sooner than that, it seems.”

There were five men in the other boat, dark and hard-eyed. They had guns. Lestrade pushed himself in front of Mycroft, right into the line of fire, and pulled his gun. He figured if they were serious, they would start shooting. But they didn’t. So, intimidation, not assassination. So far, so good.

Mycroft let the agent go. He cut the engine. The other boat came alongside. The agent pulled out his own gun and held out his hand. “I’ll just have that little stash in your pocket. My boss wants to be sure you know your place, Senor Vasco.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mycroft said. He handed the agent the wad of euros. “If I’m going to pay protection to your boss, this is hardly enough. We’ll meet tomorrow. He’s making a mistake, if he thinks I don’t wish to be reasonable. Tell him from me that I am always reasonable, and that I expect a good return on my investment.”

“Tell him yourself. And you’ll meet him tonight,” the agent said as he leaped nimbly onto his confederate’s boat, and they started pulling away. Soon they were a tiny dot in the distance, then the dot vanished.

They were alone now, bobbing in the brilliant blue water.

They were quiet for a moment, Mycroft spinning his complex plans, Lestrade unable to tear his eyes from Mycroft’s hands, hands that had almost killed a man before his eyes.

Mycroft began to turn the boat back toward the docks. The town looked very tiny in the distance. “Never, ever put yourself in the line of fire like that, never for me,” Mycroft was saying, a line of worry, even anger, between his brows, but Lestrade took his hand and stopped the boat. “Come on,” he said, pulling Mycroft’s arm hard. You had to duck low, Mycroft much more so, to climb down into the narrow bed in the rear of the cabin. “Greg, I mean it, I’m very serious, you have to listen – “ but his words were swallowed by a kiss, hot and greedy, and there wasn’t any need for words. The narrow bed was perfect for fitting them tightly together, so tight, Mycroft on top and Lestrade almost crushed against the wall, grinding into him as they tore at each other’s clothes like they were burning, and he had his hands on Lestrade’s cock now. The look between wonder and lust in his eyes was so perfect that he had to close his eyes to it so that Lestrade couldn’t see the truth, that it was really he that was the one possessed. Instead he twisted his hand just so, and exulted to hear Lestrade’s helpless gasp under his lips. He wanted to take him in his mouth, see if he could pull him just a little higher before he spilled over but Lestrade pulled his head back up and whispered, “Just kiss me,” and he did, drowning in it, the sound of Lestrade moaning into his mouth as he came hard into his hand the most erotic and precious thing he had ever felt.

A few minutes later, they untangled themselves from the tiny bunk, and Mycroft said, “I didn’t know, you see. I suppose I didn’t let myself.”

“Know what?”

“About you. About this. About us. I’m a fool. If I’d really known, really understood, do you think I would have waited all this time? Stood by and let you throw yourself away on John? But maybe . . . it had to be now.”

“What are you on about? I’m the same as I’ve always been. I’ve not changed a whit, not a thing different. You should have asked me, Mycroft, told me, from the very beginning. But now, or then, makes no difference, Mycroft. It was always right there, and if you’d have been honest about it, right from the beginning . . . imagine that.” He smiled ruefully.

They got dressed and Mycroft piloted the boat back to the docks.

“What was all that about, then, anyway?” Lestrade said, gesturing toward the vanished boat.

“We’re going to meet a local ETA boss tonight. He’s already heard about me. From his friend that owns our little restaurant, I expect. He wants his piece of the action. We’re going to make sure he thinks he’s getting everything he’s entitled to. And more.”

“And so, are you buying the boat?”

“Probably. She’s fast enough. And don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing, Greg.”

Lestrade looked back innocently.

“You’re trying to distract me. It won’t work. I meant what I said before. You’re not to risk yourself like that, do you understand? Not for me. Promise me, Greg.”

“I will not. If I you’re in any kind of danger, you can believe I’m going to do what it takes to get you out of it. Whatever it takes. Don’t you get it?”

Mycroft shook his head. He really didn’t understand how he could possibly be hearing this, could possibly be entitled to hear this.

“Whatever it takes. Whether you like it, or not. You’re just going to have to live with that.”

He promised himself that they were both going to live with that for a very, very long time. Together. Whatever it took.

To be continued . . .


	6. Steel Of Too Hard A Temper

Upon achieving the shore of the little harbour of St.-Jean-de-Luz, Mycroft arranged quickly for the purchase of the fast boat. Then they walked through the picturesque streets, stopping to browse shop-windows, stopping for coffee. Blending with the tourists.  
Lestrade tried to remember that they were not here on a vacation like all the other happy people. He asked Mycroft about his plans for the night’s rendezvous with the still-anonymous ETA boss.

"I intend," Mycroft said, "to persuade him that I am an idiot."

Lestrade laughed. "That, I’d like to see. Seriously-- I’m not sure you can pull that off, Mycroft."

"If they think I’m an idiot, they won’t be terribly concerned about anything other than parting a fool from his money. This is just the first step on the ladder. I must be able to climb higher. And I can’t do that if they don’t trust me. Immediately."

"How will you get them to trust you? We don’t know how long we have. We have to assume it’s not long."

"Correct. Money opens doors. Even doors to terrorist cells. I’ll make my plans known – I want to buy a hotel, open a nightclub, that sort of thing . . .money-losing ventures, all. They will want to verify my loyalties — I have a backstory prepared."

Lestrade nodded. "A family member killed for the cause?"

"Precisely. An uncle. Well known ETA captain – died in a police skirmish, 20 years ago. Botched kidnapping. They will check. And after they check, they will wonder whether there are better things I can be persuaded to do with my money than spend it on nightclubs and fast boats."

The afternoon sun was waning. Lestrade tried to calmly accept that Mycroft would have to do the rendezvous alone.

"I’ll tail you, then. You did say you weren’t letting me out of your sight. You know, don’t you, that I feel the same," he said.

"But not too close . . .They’ll be looking for that. It won’t work. I’ll be– fine. Quite." The local ETA cell should be child’s play compared, for example, with the Russian mafia back in Liverpool. Lestrade didn’t really know about that particular episode, though. Yet. "Remember, you’re supposed to be a property agent, not my bodyguard. Be careful; but do what you would normally do if you were on a business trip and had a night off on the town," Mycroft said.

Lestrade gave him a long, meaningful look. "You’re not serious."

Mycroft actually blushed, deeply: turning a rather spectacular shade of pink all the way to the roots of his hair. But regardless of his discomfiture, he said with a note of warning: "Perfectly. Within limits."

Here was a boundary that had not been crossed: there had been no time, yet, for it to be crossed. Jealousy. Possessiveness.

Fidelity.

Infidelity.

Lestrade felt a flush of anger.

"It’s working," he said in clipped, quiet tones that Mycroft had not heard before.

"What is?"

"You’re a bloody idiot, Mycroft."

* * *

John and Sherlock did not go to San Sebastian. That pronouncement on Sherlock’s part had, of course, been a ploy. Upon arriving in Paris, they switched trains and took the TGV high-speed train to Bayonne.

"Whoever made up these coins," Sherlock declared " – and I am certain there will be more than just the one – had access to an original Ides of March coin. The truly fine examples are well-documented, and would be easy to find. Like the one that was sold at auction last week. But even a poor copy would be quite rare. There are only seventy-five known exemplars of the Ides of March denarius."

"So . . . .where will we look, then?"

"They are sold by dealers and collectors the world over. We, however, want someone who sells them in Spain, or France. In or near the Basque country, almost certainly. Unlikely to have originated in Ireland, despite the Ulster connection."

"Right. But – "

"But?"

"–what about the internet, eBay, that sort of thing?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Always a possibility, but they won’t have wanted to leave even the hint of an electronic trail. No, short of it having been a family heirloom – which I don’t discount, not enough data – balance of probabilities is that the original coin was bought from a dealer, a modest establishment. And then, too, they needed to make up the DIES IRAE coins. Would they hire someone else to do this, or . . . is it just one individual, supplying the original and then, making up the false coin?"

"D’you mean a counterfeiter? How would they be able to trust him?"

"Indeed, where would we find such a person? There are only two really plausible choices: one is in Bilbao. The other, here. In Bayonne."

* * *

The owner of the coin shop in Bayonne had suffered a stroke some months ago; his fragile, nervous daughter was attempting to run the shop despite, obviously, having little knowledge of coins. She spoke rather good English, though, which was helpful because while Sherlock was conversant in French, John was not.

"He taught everything to my brother," she said to Sherlock by way of excuse when it became clear she was genuinely unfamiliar with several of the coins Sherlock claimed to be interested in, including Marcus Brutus’ famous Ides of March coin, struck to commemorate the assassination of Julius Caesar.

"May we speak to him, then," Sherlock said gently, surprising John with his patience. Ignorance generally brought out the very worst in Sherlock. But despite Sherlock’s care, her eyes brimmed with tears.

John began pulling Sherlock away from the shop. "Sorry to trouble you," he stammered. He never could endure the sight of women’s tears. It reminded him of certain painful family episodes.

"He’s disappeared," she said. "Drugs, you know, and trouble with the police. I suppose he may be dead, now. I tried to find him, when Father . . . But, nothing. Someone had to mind things, and so . . . " She shrugged, gesturing vaguely to the shop. It did not appear that they got much custom.

As they left, Sherlock asked if she knew of the coin shop Hermanos Ayala, in Bilbao. She nodded. "That is very sad, you know," she said, wiping away fresh tears. "Mr. Ayala was an old friend of my father’s. They used to go together, sometimes, to the coin shows. You know, my father was the only one who would associate with him."

Sherlock became very still.

"Why was that?"

"Well, you know there was a scandal. It was many years ago, now. But it is a small community, like a brotherhood, the real coin collectors, like father," she said proudly. "Someone said – well, I don’t really like to speak ill of him now –"

"Please go on," John said, putting his hand on Sherlock’s arm as it appeared he was, after all, losing patience. John had noticed that Sherlock sometimes started rising up on the balls of his feet when impatient, making the man even taller and more imposing-looking than usual.

"Well, my father said some accused Mr. Ayala of – what is the word — a forgery? Selling false coins. My father never believed it; and I don’t believe anything was ever proven."

John realized that, naturally, Sherlock’s instincts had been right. As usual. Now all that mattered was getting out of this sad little shop and leaving this poor woman to her tears.

He tried to signal Sherlock that they should go, but Sherlock remained rooted to the spot.

"You said, ‘was,’" Sherlock declared. "‘Was’ an old friend of your father’s. We’d like to inquire of Mr. Ayala whether he might have some of these coins we’re interested in. Could you help us? We’d like to contact him."

"Oh. I’m sorry. Coins. Yes. Well. As I said, it’s very sad. His shop was robbed just a few days ago, and old Mr. Ayala was —" she pulled her finger across her throat, tear trickling down her pale cheeks.

* * *

Well after dark, Mycroft dropped Lestrade at the end of the block of flashy restaurants and nightclubs where they had lunched earlier. Things were just starting to buzz for the night.

Mycroft was returning to the beachside restaurant, where he would meet the men from the boat. Lestrade would make himself visible in the bar across the street for a few hours. They agreed to rendezvous back at the villa.

"They likely won’t want to take me anywhere the first meeting. If everything goes smoothly, there will be another meeting: a more important one, after this."

"And if it doesn’t?" Lestrade growled.

"At the villa you’ll find my case in the safe. I’ve set the combination as the reverse from my London house, do you remember it?" Lestrade nodded, remembering the night Mycroft’s butler Morris had shown him the combination to Mycroft’s steel cabinet, housing row after row of exotic and highly illegal weaponry. The night that agent Robert Roussel had died in his arms, leaving Lestrade the bloody Day of Wrath coin.

"In the case is intelligence about ETA. I need you to read it now, so you know everything I know."

Lestrade scowled. Mycroft was trying to tell him to sacrifice him if necessary, but to complete the mission. He nodded brusquely, only because he knew Mycroft could not be dissuaded from his plan for tonight’s meeting – and because he had to assume that Mycroft knew exactly what he was doing.

They made no conspicuous display at parting. Lestrade climbed out of the silver Audi as casually as he could, giving Mycroft’s hand the merest brush with his fingertips, then watched Mycroft deliver it to a valet and enter the restaurant.

A man came to greet him at the door, and Mycroft went inside.

* * *

Lestrade headed straight for the bar across the street, where loud music was blaring. He ordered a drink and smoked a cigarette. Everyone smoked in France. He exchanged a few pleasantries in his near-perfect French with men at the bar and surreptitiously watched across the street, where, so far, all seemed quiet. Some pretty girls, tanned from a day at the beach, eyed him appreciatively. He smiled back politely but did not encourage them. He didn’t consider that his cover required him to pretend to be particularly interested in women.

The topic everywhere was the Day of Wrath bombings. Lestrade saw with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, there had been a new bombing within just the past hour: this time, strangely, in Indonesia. There had been an explosion at a remote ecotourism resort. The chilling aftermath had been the kidnaping of a dozen UK tourists by a pack of masked gunmen.

They released a videotape of the beheading of one of the tourists.

They displayed the severed head under a banner proclaiming that the Day of Wrath was near.

Lestrade ordered another drink and knocked it back, hoping no one saw his hand shake.

If Mycroft was right, the men he was meeting with at this very moment were tied, somehow, to this gruesome and pitiless killing, halfway across the world.

* * *

John suppressed a groan of frustration. There was no direct train from Bayonne to Bilbao, and they had to board a bus. The kind, lost lady in the coin shop of Bayonne had produced Senor Ayala’s home address, advising that no one would likely be able to receive them there; a widower, Ayala had for many years lived entirely alone. It was nearly dawn when the bus discharged them near the center in the Old Town.

The house of Senor Ayala was shuttered up and already had the look of desertion that steals upon a house after a death. In a narrow street of romantic old Belle Epoque mansions, the house of Senor Ayala stood alone, surrounded by a gated wall enclosing a garden. It was the work of less than a minute for Sherlock to pick the gate’s ancient lock.

Inside the wall was a trickling old stone fountain, and neglected greenery. The high wall kept the sounds of the Old Town from penetrating here. Scrolled wrought iron balconies looked down over the garden. A grey cat sat blinking at the stone doorstep.

Sherlock led them along the side of the house, where a servant’s door was easily breached. Pushing the door open cautiously, they entered.

Dust motes drifted in the air. There was a distant ticking of a clock. They were in a small room, almost a closet, leading to a tidy kitchen with ancient appliances that did not look to have been replaced since the 1950s. A loud clock chime pealed the hour, deep and solemn. The sound faded away slowly. They were, apparently, quite alone. Except for the grey cat, who had insinuated itself between their legs as they entered and was now following them expectantly.

Sherlock gestured for John to follow, and he did, his hand gripping the new gun that Sherlock had mysteriously provided him. He was glad that MI6 had had the foresight to provide them with something other than their wits to pursue their mission. It was loaded. John could not help fingering it a little nervously. He did not trust any weapon he had not had a chance to fire.

The old house made little creaks and groans as they walked. Sherlock led them through seemingly long-disused rooms furnished with stiff, old-fashioned furniture. But when they came to a snug room lined with glass-doored cabinets, they knew they had found what they came for. The room lacked the stale air of the others; the grey cat leaped onto a chair where, John thought, his master probably had been accustomed to sit. This was the private study of Senor Ayala.

Sherlock easily pried open the lock to the drawers of the old desk here, and they divided the work of paging through the large quantity of papers. There did not seem to be any particular system. Some bore the name of a presumed purchaser or dealer involved in the transaction; others, merely initials or sometimes, numbers. John was mystified.

One piqued Sherlock’s interest, though, and he examined it closely.

"Look, John," he held it up. There was a faint scrawl on the scrap of paper:

EM AR d. x 6 JQB

John scrutinized it. "The original was called Eid Mars in Latin . . . so, ‘EM’?"

Sherlock smiled approvingly. "Precisely. The rest is simple enough, ‘AR d.’ is for silver denarius: silver abbreviated as "AR" for argentum –"

"Latin for silver." Medical school got one quite up on Latin.

"The ‘d’ is for denarius."

"So, six Ides of March coins; but isn’t our coin an alloy, not silver? . . .and what is QCB?"

"You are right: our Day of Wrath coin is not silver. But the original Ides of March coin certainly is. Now recollect, John: these coins were struck by Marcus Brutus."

"Yes, of course, but . . . wouldn’t the initials be, MB, then? And why mention Brutus at all? If you know what the coin is, you don’t – don’t need to refer to Brutus. It goes without saying. Particularly for a coin dealer, I should have thought."

Sherlock began perusing the bookshelves with concentration. "A dealer in ancient coins would necessarily need to be well acquainted with the ancient Romans," he said. Plucking an old volume entitled "Roman Lives" in Spanish, he read out haltingly:

"Marcus Brutus was descended from the . . . famous line . . . . of Lucius Junius Brutus, who . . . drove out the Etruscan kings from Rome and. . . founded the first republic. But that ancient Brutus was of a severe and. . . inflexible nature, like steel of too hard a temper, and having never had his character. . . softened by study and thought, he let himself be so far transported with his. . . rage and hatred against tyrants, that, for conspiring with them, he proceeded to. . . the execution even of . . . his own sons. Marcus Brutus’ father was . . . .assassinated . . .by Pompey the Great, after which Marcus Brutus was . . . .adopted by his. . . uncle, Quintus Servilius Caepio. And he honored his adoptive parent. . . . by taking his name, calling himself Quintus Caepio Brutus. .

"Quintus Caepio Brutus – QCB. Don’t you see? Our man was using these initials as a kind of password with old Ayala," Sherlock said, frowning. He pocketed the scrap of paper.

"If he struck six of the coins," John said, "that means there were – or are-- six conspirators, each being given one of the coins? One of them was our dead man in Ulster? How will we find the others?"

"We know one was delivered to Ulster. Whether it was intended to go farther, not enough data. I don’t think they would have permitted old Senor Ayala to know where the coins were destined. No, our man QCB would have arranged to take delivery of the Day of Wrath coins – and for the means of having them passed on to the conspirators."

There was a sound in the passage. Sherlock and John froze. For a moment there was silence; then, the distinct sound of a firm, heavy tread. Footsteps.

John drew his gun.

The door to the study, which they had left ajar, swung slowly inward.

"Have the goodness to explain yourselves, senors, or I shall certainly blow out your brains," said the man at the door, who brandished a large, somehow antique-looking pistol that nevertheless had a well-kept look to John’s eye.

"Careful," John warned in a low, calm voice, not lowering his gun. "This is loaded. Stay back."

"I asked you to explain. As you refuse, I shall shoot you, senor, and then your friend, before he can take up your gun."

John calmly aimed at the other man’s head. "Not. Happening," he declared. "I don’t miss. I only have to make one shot. You, on the other hand, have to make two. The odds are against you, and your antique there."

The man shrugged philosophically. "You may be right. It would be interesting to find out, yes?"

"No."

"We had important business with Senor Ayala," Sherlock said in one of his false voices: a smooth, oily sort of tone that suggested a transaction not entirely within the bounds of the law. "Delicate business. We hoped that there were no . . . records of a – compromising nature, remaining for the police to find – now that he is dead. We find that there are none. Our business is concluded. Please let us be on our way; our business is our own, not yours."

The man stepped into the light. He was impeccably turned out in a finely cut brown suit, with an impressive head of silver hair and a silver moustache, and somber grey eyes. The overall effect was one of gravitas. "On the contrary, I think we have much to discuss," he said. "You and your friend are looking for the same thing I am looking for. Perhaps. . . you can help me."

"I doubt that very much," Sherlock snapped. When people pointed weapons at John, Sherlock could be quite difficult.

"Perhaps I can help you, then," the man said equably. He gestured with his free hand toward an empty chair. "Come, gentlemen, I was too hasty. I see you are not common criminals after all. Introductions are in order. I am Roderigo de la Pena. I was Senor Ayala’s solicitor, in life; sadly, he is dead, and I am now his executor." He made a small bow and sat in the chair, keeping his gun trained on John. "Let us put our guns away, and talk reasonably."

 

"How do we know you are who you say you are?" John said.

"In my coat pocket are my card, my license, and downstairs is my briefcase containing legal papers pertaining to Senor Ayala’s will. I will show you; and then, let us be civilized."

Sherlock approached and patted the man’s coat, extracting the identification and business cards he had described, while the man and John kept their guns trained on each other. Sherlock spent some moments scrutinizing these items under the light of the desk lamp. Finally he nodded, satisfied.

"They are genuine, John. Perhaps a little chat would be illuminating."

The men slowly put down their guns.

"Before that, I hate to insist. I must see your identification as well," Pena said. They dug out their false passports, and Pena looked at them without, apparently, questioning their authenticity.

"Well, Senor Trent, Senor Neale – as I am the executor of Senor Ayala’s will, and as he has no direct heirs, I am the only person who has the right of access to this house. The police have not even come here--- they appear to have decided that Senor Ayala’s death was a common robbery gone wrong; and so, their business is finished. Open-and-shut case. I think you know something of Senor Ayala’s death, yes?"

"No. That is, we were told of it, but hoped, as I said, that no. . . indiscreet papers pertaining to our business with Senor Ayala would be discovered by the police. We found nothing here, and we are satisfied," Sherlock said.

"And the nature of your business with Senor Ayala?"

"Certain coins, which we wanted to – shall we say — have reproduced by Senor Ayala. For collectors only, you understand — persons who wanted a perfect copy to round out their collection. It is not always possible for a collector to lay hands on every coin he wants. Some collectors are happy to have -- an alternative," Sherlock said. "Now, Senor Ayala, for reasons I am sure you appreciate, did not want it known that he would undertake these sorts of commissions; neither, I must say, do we."

Pena nodded. "He was brilliant. But I thought he had given this business up, after the last time."

Sherlock and John did not look at each other.

"He didn’t deliver these coins to you?"

Sherlock shook his head in the negative.

"What were these. . . coins?"

"I don’t care to say. As I said, our business is our own; it has failed, and there does not seem to be anything that you, sir, can do for us. We will be going," Sherlock stood up.

Pena held out his hand. "Then I will tell you what coin it was," he said. "Does the phrase, Ides of March, mean anything to you?"

　

* * *

Lestrade was growing impatient for the night to come to an end. Several groups of men in twos and threes had entered the restaurant where Mycroft was, but no one had left, yet. It was just past midnight. His anxiety was rising; the meeting was taking longer, he thought, than it should. Mycroft had been inside a little over two hours. The bar was playing loud dance music now.

"You miss your friend," came an insinuating voice in his ear, loud, over the music. He turned to see the Algerian waiter from lunch earlier that day. He smiled invitingly. "He left you all alone tonight, mon ami. But – you don’t have to stay alone," he said, leaving no room for interpretation.

"Ah, listen — thanks, but it’s not like that. Anyway, I’m off soon," Lestrade said firmly.

"Why? The night is just starting. I know a better club, you know?" The man pulled at Lestrade’s arm. He was maybe a little drunk. Lestrade was not.

"Hey, really, I’m not up for anything, all right?" He said even more firmly, getting a little irate.

The Algerian pouted. It did not become him as well as he evidently thought it did. Lestrade winced. "Your friend – he’s not alone. I can show you. You’re better off with me, tonight."

"What the hell do you mean?"

"I saw you watching across the street. He’s not coming back for you tonight. That’s what you thought, isn’t it? You shouldn’t waste the night waiting on him. He has new friends, now. Rich men can always find new friends." The Algerian smiled smugly, obviously hoping to spark jealousy. Lestrade realized that he and Mycroft may possibly not have been as clever as they thought, at lunch. This urchin had spotted that they were lovers.

He relaxed deliberately, and put his hand on the man’s arm. "What did you say your name was?"

"Yussuf."

"Yussuf. I wouldn’t feel right leaving unless I was sure my friend wasn’t coming back. Do you understand? Why do you say my friend isn’t coming back?"

Yussuf nodded. His eyes had a hectic, overexcited look and Lestrade wondered if he was more than drunk. "I work there, during the day; nights, too; but tonight they gave me off; gave us all off," he rambled.

"Can I buy you a drink?" Lestrade asked, smiling down at his new friend, who grinned broadly.

Lestrade got them both fresh drinks. Clearly Yussuf wanted to milk this for all it was worth, and it wouldn’t do Mycroft any good if he made this man suspicious.

"I’m telling you, your friend won’t be coming back tonight. Come with me, I have a place nearby. Or take me away with you," he said boldly. Lestrade groaned inwardly. This was going nowhere; or rather, going exactly where he didn’t want it to go.

"Can you take me there? Across the street? I could . . . maybe see if he’s — occupied for the evening. Then, you can take me to the other club," he said, laying a firmer hand on Yussuf’s arm. Yussuf beamed.

"I can take you, but we have to be very quiet."

"Yes. Right. I don’t want my friend to think I am following him, he would be very angry with me," Lestrade said.

"Follow me," Yussuf said, and led him out the back door of the club. The cold sea air was shockingly fresh and cold after the warm, loud bar. Yussuf led him through narrow alleys until they were, Lestrade thought, behind the restaurant where Mycroft had his rendezvous. Yussuf pulled him up a fragile wooden staircase that led to the upper floor of the restaurant next door, where, apparently, he rented a room. "Just for now, until I find something better. Maybe you will take me back to America, I work hard," he wheedled, laying back against the mattress on the floor. He smiled seductively.

"Listen, you told me you would take me to see Senor Vasco," Lestrade said, getting well and truly irritated now. "And you’ve tricked me. I’m out of here," and he went to leave, but Yussuf stopped him.

"Don’t be like that, sir. Look – look out this window here, tell me what you see."

Lestrade looked out. The little window looked directly into a dirty window across the narrow alleyway, so close that he could stretch out and touch it. And that window looked down into a room full of men. He could see Mycroft. The men appeared to be talking, drinking. Maybe even laughing. Mycroft did not appear to be in any danger. It did not, however, look like the meeting was near its conclusion. He heaved a silent sigh of relief. Time to go back to the villa.

"There are such windows on both sides, high up, you know," Yussuf said. " I see . . . interesting things, sometimes. But Yussuf knows how to keep his mouth shut."

Lestrade looked at him to see if this was some sort of threat, if this Yussuf had seen something he shouldn’t have. But all he saw was a sort of naive bravado, a childish desire to be important to the rich American’s friend. He relented.

"Listen, you’re very kind. I see that you’re right. My friend is engaged for the night. He doesn’t look like he’s leaving any time soon. But I’m not up for any more clubbing, and you’re – well, very nice and all that, don’t think you’re not, but – I really can’t stay."

He thought about reaching for his wallet to give the man some money, but something in the man’s eye, pride, maybe, stopped him. And then thought he saw something dark moving in the alley below. Something stealthy. He strained his eyes to see if he could make out a face, anything, but there was nothing but darkness and a darker smudge, sidling along the alley.

"Stay here, don’t make a sound," Lestrade said harshly, and began the climb back down to the alley, gun drawn.

Below, the raucous thump of music from the bars prevented him from hearing anything.

A police patrol drove by. He froze on the wooden staircase.

He decided to walk naturally as though he was just going back to the bars, with his gun down at his side. But then there was a splintering sound and he had just a second to process what was happening when the fragile old wood of the stair cracked, then gave way.

Lestrade wavered, unbalanced, turning just in time to see the outline of a face he thought he had glimpsed before.

Where?

"What the - " he cried as he instinctively threw his arm up as the man delivered a vicious kick. Lestrade didn’t drop his gun, but his arm was paralyzed by the brutal blow. He switched the gun to his good left hand.

This man was a serious opponent, Lestrade knew immediately. He had a knife, and wielded it with wicked force and precision. Lestrade parried, trying to get in a shot as adrenaline surged and kicked in, bringing everything into the uniquely sharp focus of mortal danger.

Back and forth they battled, desperate grunting and scuffling the only sounds. Finally Lestrade maneuvered the nose of the gun against his assailant’s ribcage. He pulled the trigger. The sound was incredibly loud.

He bent over to search the man. His breath was reduced to a labored wheezing by Lestrade's bullet. Blood, warm and glistening darkly, covered them both and the air filled with the metallic tang of it. Now Lestrade could see the man’s face, and contorted with pain though it was, he knew where he had seen it before.

London.

And that was the last thought he had before something very hard struck the back of his head, and everything went black.

 

to be continued . . .


	7. Sic Semper Tyrannus

Sherlock said, "Of course. The Ides of March denarius; struck by Marcus Brutus to commemorate the assassination of Julius Caesar. One of the rarest and most valuable Roman coins."

Pena was looking through Ayala’s desk. "Exactly. And Ayala had one. No one knew it – except me, and his very closest friend. And now the coin has vanished. And Ayala is dead. Murdered. I don’t suppose either of you know where this coin is?"

"Would we be here if we did?" John said bluntly.

"Do the police know about the coin?" Sherlock asked. Pena shook his head in the negative.

"No. At least – not yet. I would like to find this coin myself, you understand, without involving the police. Now, you were having Ayala make copies for you, yes? Good copies – copies that would pass – and be valued accordingly." He smiled the innocently corrupt smile of the lawyer. Sherlock smirked.

"What I want to know, Pena, is where Ayala went in the weeks before his death. Maybe then, we can find . . . our coins. We have good reason to believe he made them up. Maybe we can find the original, too. Perhaps he had someone, a trusted friend, as you say, holding them. Can you help us?"

Pena looked thoughtful. "It is proper for me, as Ayala’s executor, to marshal the assets of his estate," he said with as much dignity as he could summon. "You will only raise suspicion if you go digging into this affair."

"If we have to go to the police with what we know, we will. I am sure I can persuade them that we were - - deceived by Senor Ayala. That certain valuables are missing. They may look deeper than they have until now. . . . That might be – awkward for you," Sherlock said firmly.

"What do you want to know, exactly? How can I help?" Pena said resignedly.

"To start, where is Ayala’s engagement book? It was not in the shop, nor here in the house. Perhaps the police have it. If so, you must go to them and find a way to persuade them to let you look at it and copy from it his engagements for the past month, at least." Sherlock barked, staccato, pacing, frustrated. Pena coughed gently behind his hand to possibly interrupt Sherlock’s progress. Sherlock spun around.

"My briefcase downstairs – I have Ayala’s diary."

"Let’s all go down together," John said, "And take a look. In case there’s anything else in your briefcase."

Pena shrugged and they all filed downstairs, the grey cat leaping ahead. Pena led them to the kitchen. He opened the case and brought out a worn blue leather desk diary. They huddled around it.

In spindly, crabbed handwriting were notes, initials, but nothing that seemed particularly of the ordinary. Sherlock made a few notes, sighing.

Folded into one of the pages was a kind of map, which he carefully spread out on the kitchen table. It depicted the scheme for trade stalls at a coin show held in the exhibition centre of Bilbao, just over a month ago. The map had a legend which explained which dealer was assigned to each particular stall number. The map was in English and Spanish.

The stall of Hermanos Ayala was number 144. There were no notes or other clues here; the map was clean. But Sherlock stared at the little map for a long time. John and Pena stood back, instinctively giving him the silence and space his hyperactive brain needed.

Sherlock sighed heavily. "I can make nothing of this, nothing seems out of the ordinary. Senor Pena, I believe we will be on our way. Good luck." Sherlock took John’s arm and dragged him back toward the little door they had come it by. Pena looked doubtful, but in the end capitulated. He gave Sherlock his card.

"I hope you will contact me if I may assist you," he said. "Senor Ayala was a dear friend." he said blandly.

Sherlock and John kept their faces impassive, each remembering the weeping woman minding the forlorn little shop in Bayonne.

They shook hands all around. Pena clearly intended to stay in the house, and they closed the door behind them. The grey cat followed after them as far as the iron gate, its yellow eyes regarding them steadily as they left the house of Senor Ayala.

* * *

In a simple restaurant in the Old Town, John ate and Sherlock nibbled at John’s insistence. He was processing.

"One forty-four. One. Four. Four. Four-four-one? The total - nine? A multiple?" Sherlock mused, closing his eyes, mentally shuffling the numbers. "A code?" John could think of no meaning associated with the numbers one, four and four. Long minutes passed.

Sherlock opened his eyes, glittering now with excitement. "Fourteen. Four."

John refused to parrot this back at Sherlock, and waited.

"It is a date," Sherlock said.

"What makes you think so? It’s – just a stall number."

"Yes, but one might also call it a "booth," mightn’t one? Perhaps not in England, but in America I believe it is common parlance for these sorts of functions," he mused.

John tried not to look too confused. He knew he was about to experience one of the flights of brilliance that he had become used to, but that still astounded.

"Stall. Booth. The fourteenth of April. It is the date of the assassination of the American President Abraham Lincoln by John Wilkes Booth. An actor, who, incidentally, was known for one particular role: Brutus, in Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar. When Booth shot Lincoln in a theatre, he cried ‘Sic semper tyrannus,’ or ‘thus always to tyrants’ – supposedly, the same words uttered by Brutus in stabbing Caesar. And what do you suppose Booth’s father’s name was?"

"Tell me."

"Junius Brutus Booth. He was named after the historical Brutus. He was the most famous actor of his time, and was English, you know, though he eventually moved to America and made a fortune there. Made his debut at Covent Garden Theatre. Richard III. 1817."

"I didn’t know you – cared — about the history of theater," John said. They had been to plays, to Shakespeare, even (to see a performance by Irene Adler); but any deep knowledge Sherlock possessed of the theatre had been heretofore well hidden.

Sherlock snorted. "I don’t. But– I have made a study of the great assassins. John Wilkes Booth being one; his father, nearly became another. Do you know that shortly before his death, he sent a letter to President Andrew Jackson, threatening to kill him? He was so famous an actor that it was thought to be a hoax; but recent handwriting analysis proves it was, indeed, Junius Brutus Booth."

"Okay, so – Ayala has a stall – a booth – numbered the same date as the assassination President Lincoln. Because . . . "

"It is a signal. A private sign. So the conspirators could visit him in public, without arranging any meetings that would create risk, or trusting to the mails. The conspirators picked up the Day of Wrath coins from Ayala at Booth 414 a little over a month ago, in a public place where they would not be noticed. Clever."

John and Sherlock looked at each other. John realized what this meant. "The exhibition centre. . . has security video from the coin show."

Sherlock nodded. "Probably. And then, we’ll have their faces, John."

"But, still – have you any idea where Mycroft is?"

"If I know Mycroft, he’ll be somewhere very close to one or more of the men whose faces we’re going to find on that security footage," Sherlock said.

* * *

Lestrade awoke to near darkness.

There was loud yet muffled dance music throbbing from above, vibrating in his chest, and he imagined that he was in the cellar of a nightclub.

He remembered the alley, remembered watching Mycroft through the window of Yussuf’s room. Mycroft. He forced his mind, foggy, clouded with pain, to survey his condition. What he learned brought him no comfort.

He was sitting, mostly upright, in a hard chair. He was upright only because he was tightly bound to the chair, hand and foot. He could see almost nothing. Everything was dark; hazy, too, as though he looked through gauze.

His tongue tasted fresh blood. He knew it was his own. He felt a slow, maddening drip down his forehead. It trickling into his eyes.

He battled a drowsiness completely at odds with his pain and peril, and tried to speak. After a few tries, he got his mouth working properly.

"Qu'est-ce que vous me voulez? (What do you want with me?)" Lestrade said. He was having a hard time stringing together proper French. It was important, he knew, to keep it together, stay to French only. He shook his head to clear the blood from his face, and the resulting fresh pain in his skull made him cry out.

He could smell cigarette smoke. Behind him.

"What are you doing in St.-Jean-de-Luz, Monsieur Lamont?"

Lestrade almost felt giddy with relief. They didn’t know. It was going to be all right.

"Helping Vasco. Spending his money," he said. "But I don’t have any of my own– if that’s what you want."

There was a short laugh.

"What I want, Mr. Lamont, you will understand soon enough."

"No need to be formal," Lestrade said. "Go right ahead."

"I’ll ask again. What are you doing in St.-Jean-de-Luz, Monsieur Lamont?"

"Look, Monsieur Vasco contacted me– friend of a friend, see? He wanted someone to show him around the Cote Basque. Had an idea of buying some properties. I have family in the area. I’m a property agent. I agreed to come out. Spend a few days. If he likes anything, I get my fee."

"You are not from the Cote Basque. No one knows you."

Lestrade’s heart was hammering now at the same time that he battled the drowsiness.

"Haven’t been here. . . for years. I have a London office. And Provence. . . Holiday cottages. Not much in it . . . not these days. But Monsieur Vasco -- he’s willing to spend. I can tell you he’s going to owe me a lot more – after tonight," Lestrade put some swagger into it. At least he hoped it was.

It was the best he could do.

He hoped, too, with all his heart that Mycroft was not in some nearby room. Undergoing similar questions.

Being hurt.

The very thought made him burn.

* * *

The blood was running down his neck, now.

The blood flow didn’t seem to be stopping like it should.

Lestrade remembered responding to a domestic dispute. In his mind, he was transported back to Hackney. The husband lay on the floor in a huge pool of sticky blood. He was very recently dead. The only visible wound, a small, deep laceration on his scalp. His wife had struck him in the head with a bottle then stormed out, leaving him alone. Lestrade had figured the case for intracranial bleeding.

The autopsy, though, showed no internal bleeding: organs pale, livor mortis negligible.

Cause of death: exsanguination.

From a single cut on the scalp.

The trickle down his neck was somehow revolting now. Lestrade shuddered.

* * *

"Attention, if you please, Monsieur Lamont. What did Monsieur Vasco tell you . . . about his plans? Tell me everything."

"Listen, you’ve got it all wrong – I don’t know Vasco. Right? He wants to buy a hotel . . . maybe a nightclub. That’s it."

Silence.

"Look," Lestrade said, pushing the words out, because suddenly his tongue seemed thick. Slow. Slow like his thoughts. "If this is about my cut, I’m a . . . reasonable fellow. I heard you guys say – Vasco’s got to pay up. Have at it. Not a problem. Look – I’m on the next train south. This is . . . too hot for me."

"Is that all you have to say? About Monsieur Vasco’s plans?"

"Plans? What – plans? I told you. I barely know him." And in a way, he knew this was true: and it gave Lestrade a kind of pain to realize that almost certainly, he was not going to have the chance, now, to truly know Mycroft Holmes. He was bitterly disappointed. He realized that this was something, maybe the only thing, he really wanted for himself now. Now it was all over before it had really started.

There was a disappointed sound. It was beside his ear.

It was, unfortunately, closer to his ear than the voice had been before.

In front of him.

There was a whooshing sound and then a sharp crack, and his shin bone exploded.

* * *

The pain burned, and blossomed, consuming him more than he would have ever thought possible. The immobility of his limbs seemed to multiply this pain a hundredfold. He could not form any thoughts or words; some sound was issuing from his mouth, distantly, but all he knew was pain. The bone had to be crushed.

"Now, think, Lamont: have you told me everything?"

The pain seemed to have sharpened his mind. There was no more drowsiness.

"He thinks . . . he told . . . me . . ."

"Told you what?"

"That . . . he . . . wants to meet your boss," Lestrade said. Tears of pain were trickling from the corners of his eyes. He was glad. This had to look real.

"Why?"

"Look, I don’t want to get mixed up . . . in anything – political."

"Explain. Believe me, I won’t be starting on the other leg. That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it? No. I’ll keep on the same place. Do you understand?"

Lestrade said, "If . . . I tell you . . . will you – let me go?"

"If I believe you."

It was getting darker in this dark place. The music paused for a moment; just long enough that he was certain he heard the sound of a magazine being loaded, quiet and stealthy, into a gun. Lestrade would know that sound anywhere.

There was a loud sound of raucous, rambunctious shouting and clapping in the nightclub above.

"Don’t -- . I’ll tell you," He panted. The brief surge of strange alertness was fading fast.

He was fading fast. His head lolled.

Another explosion, precisely in the same spot as before; Lestrade never would have believed that it could feel this different from the first blow, magnified and engulfing him in so much agony as to make the other seem a kiss.

He waited. And another blow came, and the universe was gone, he was gone. He was nothing but screaming nerves and shattered flesh. He wondered at what point the nerves would simply stop responding to stimuli.

Lestrade had done undercover work before, obviously. It was always a possibility that you would be captured. Tortured. He had been given some advice by a Yard trainer how to handle this.

The advice seemed pathetic.

Nothing could really prepare you for this kind of pain– except this kind of pain. He hadn’t reached his limits. Not yet.

But he was starting to understand that he had them, and this, more than anything else, made Lestrade afraid.

* * *

He could sense, rather than hear, his own blood dripping on the floor.

"Speak," the voice said, behind him again.

Lestrade whispered. "He said . . ."

"What?"

Lestrade whispered, and sputtered. There was an impatient groan, and then the scuffle of footsteps. He felt warm breath on the back of his neck.

"It was about . . . freedom," Lestrade gasped softly, spitting out more blood. He coughed wetly.

"Do you want another? Tell me exactly what Vasco said," the voice growled in his ear.

Now was the time.

With all of his strength, galvanized by pain, Lestrade whipped his head back, hard: there was a very satisfying crunch when it destroyed his captor’s nasal bones. It almost made up for the excruciating pain this caused to his skull. He kept the momentum going until he fell back with the all the force he could summon, pushing the chair, and he fell heavily against body of his captor; driving them both down together, hard, to the floor. He heard the clatter and skid of the gun dropping.

With another explosion of applause and laughter, the music upstairs resumed, louder than ever.

Lestrade’s fingers explored. He pushed the chair, flailing, dragging by inches along the cold stones. His captor was stunned, but stirring now. If he made any sound Lestrade could not hear it over the music. Lestrade panted, gasped and kicked, stretching his fingers, groping the floor for the gun.

And when, at last, he felt the cold grip with his fingertips, his gritted teeth shone reddish in the darkness as he grinned through his own blood and unloaded half of the bullets.

* * *

He had expected the sound to bring others. Maybe others who would get close before they realized he held the gun; maybe, he could use the rest of the bullets somehow. As the minutes stretched by, he realized no one had heard anything. The club would be pumping until almost dawn.

No one was coming.

He flailed and wriggled, but nothing would loosen the ropes that bound him. His captor did not stir. Eventually, he felt cooling blood flowing around him on the floor. Mingling with his own.

Now sleep was here again, and this time, it was determined to stay. That was all right. He had gotten through. Mycroft was, perhaps, still safe. He chose to believe this now, in fact he clung to this single thought: that Mycroft still had a chance.

* * *

Mycroft checked his watch. It was after midnight.

Time to either set another meeting, or leave things as they were.

This group of men were, ostensibly, a txoko, or gastronomical society, formed for its exclusively male members to meet, sing Basque songs, and cook Basque cuisine for collective dinners for members of the society. During the past times, txokos had been one of the only places numbers of Basques could legally congregate, and the discussion of politics was forbidden. Even today the txokos remained a valid means of cloaking a meeting for other purposes with respectable bonhomie.

There was a lengthy, exquisite meal. Mycroft made a show of drinking a great deal more wine than he was (evidently) used to. After dinner, he stood and made maudlin toasts in his excellent Euskara, proclaiming his love of freedom, his belief in liberty forged by his American upbringing, his sympathy with the cause of the Basque people, a race oppressed.

He gave no sign at all of being frightened by his encounter on the bay earlier with presumed ETA operatives.

"When the American colonists were offended British tyranny," Mycroft declared, "They formed a revolutionary army. There is nothing more valuable than freedom, my friends. This is why America is great."

The men applauded, and looked with eyes dark and eager at their leader. This was the moment, Mycoft thought. Juan Elorza was the leader of this little group, and he clapped with heavy hands, slowly and loudly, at Mycroft’s little speech. This seemed to be a signal; the men filed out, only a few remained behind.

* * *

Elorza was a strong-looking, clear-eyed man of about fifty, with a prominent nose and iron-grey hair swept back. He called for Pacharan, the Basque liqueur flavored with sloe berries and anise. They sipped, and eyed each other across the table. Mycroft checked his watch.

"This, sir, has been memorable. Wonderful hospitality. Really wonderful. Food better than my grandmother’s, and I’ll tell you – I would never let anyone else say that!" Mycroft barked with laughter and finished off the liqueur in a vulgar gulp. "Now, we’d better get down to business. Get all that-- out of the way." He winced inwardly as his voice seemed extraordinarily loud in the now-quiet room.

Elorza nodded. "I appreciate, sir, your patience. I’m glad we were able to entertain you. But you must know that we are very curious, here in St.-Jean-de-Luz, why a son of the Basque, comes back to the Euskadi, only to throw his American dollars away. You seem to have proper feeling, sir, for your country. And the cost . . of freedom."

Mycroft shrugged. "So it seems. Everything costs. But it looks to me like the time for Basque freedom has come and gone."

Elorza shook his head. "True fighters never lose the will to fight, sir."

Mycroft frowned. "I’ll have you know," he said belligerently, "that my family are fighters. I lost my uncle. My father’s brother. It was the sort of thing— you know. So don’t you lecture me. Dad always said — well, I don’t need to get into family business with you. This Pacharan is really wonderful! My grandfather used to make his own. Now, I believe you have a business proposal for me."

Elorza smiled, and Mycroft’s heart sank. It was not a friendly smile. It was not even polite.

"I am enjoying your company so much, Monsieur Vasco, that I have decided to invite you to stay. For a while. Your friend Lamont will bring us funds in the amount I have written on this paper," he said, holding it up. Fifty thousand euros scrawled on a paper napkin, which he burnt over a candle on the table. "Consider it payment for . . . .security. After that, you can resume your tour of our beautiful country. But if you should chose to open a hotel, or a nightclub, here in St.-Jean-de-Luz, or anywhere else in the Basque country, you may expect to receive visitors every month, to see that you are safe, and comfortable, and that no harm comes to you."

Mycroft smiled back, a gullible smile that gave no hint that he thought these proposals improper. "And these visitors will also want to be paid for their efforts?"

Elorza nodded. "Business is business, Monsieur Vasco. Now, please call your friend and let me show you where you may rest, until he comes."

Mycroft didn’t move. "Don’t be an ass, my– friend."

* * *

Everyone froze. The men looked at Elorza fearfully. Elorza loomed over Mycroft, who was still sitting. His fist clenched.

"I don’t think I’ve made myself clear," Elorza said. "But my men will explain." He made a small gesture and the men stepped forward. Elorza started to turn to go.

Mycroft called out: "Why settle for fifty thousand – when you could have ten times that? But for that, I want to sit at the big table." He slapped his fist on the table and glared up at Elorza. Elorza lifted an eyebrow.

"Why should we not just take that too? You aren’t in a position to make demands."

"But I am. You think I didn’t take steps before coming here? If I don’t walk out of here safely by tomorrow morning, you’ll be sorry. And neither of us want that! I want to do what my uncle couldn’t. I have the money to do it. And more. It’s what my father would want. I’m a generous man – but I won’t be a blind one. I want a seat at the table. Never let anybody spend my money yet without at least a seat at the table. Arrange it for me, and you can keep the fifty thousand; I’ll even double it. Consider it a finder’s fee."

"Finder’s fee? What did we find?"

"The way to avenge my uncle."

This time when Elorza smiled, it reached his eyes. He held out his hand to Mycroft, and Mycroft shook it.

* * *

Half an hour later, Mycroft was permitted to leave with an escort of two ETA minders. Mycroft was to return to his villa where, he promised, he had substantial cash to deliver to Elorza in good faith, and to arrange for more cash to be forthcoming after another meeting, this time with the powers of ETA in France.

Until that time, though, his minders would never leave him.

It was now nearly three in the morning. The minders helped guide Mycroft back to his own car, which they insisted upon driving at least in part because Mycroft appeared well and truly drunk by now. Elorza did not require him to be cuffed or otherwise restrained, and they embraced like brothers as Mycroft was bundled into the back seat of the car.

Mycroft staggered into the villa. His heart felt peculiarly heavy when he saw not a single light burning. Lestrade was not there. He was supposed to have met him here by now.

Mycroft turned on a few lights, and the minders followed him closely.

"I want a drink," he slurred, and went into the kitchen.

"The money," said one of the minders.

"A drink, then the money," Mycroft said stubbornly. The minders grinned. This American was an idiot.

Mycroft opened a bottle of wine and offered some to the men, who declined. Mycroft shrugged, and gulped his wine. His elbow jostled a wine rack, which tipped over, shattering the bottles. Red wine splashed everywhere.

Mycroft cursed colorfully and the men looked exasperated. Mycroft began mopping ineffectually at the wet floor with a little dishtowel.

"Let’s go," said one of the minders impatiently. "You can do house cleaning tomorrow."

"Sorry," Mycroft said, and tried to walk out of the kitchen. But then he slipped in the spilled wine, and went down with a crash. His wine glass fell from his hand and shattered too.

"Oohhhmph," Mycroft groaned on the floor. He floundered a little. He could not get up.

The minders growled, but with a look of disgust went to haul the drunken Mycroft from the slippery floor.

Whereupon, Mycroft drove a broken wine bottle into the neck of one as he was bending down, and dragged the other by his ankle down to the floor, where he efficiently dispatched him with a kitchen knife. In a matter of seconds, Mycroft had taken the men’s wallets and mobiles, grabbed a gun, and was speeding in the car back to the town.

The entire operation with Elorza was now blown. Which mattered not at all. He had to find Lestrade.

* * *

Thankfully he had a coat, and he put it on now to disguise the mixed blood and red wine that completely drenched his garments. He knew he smelled atrociously of wine, but that couldn’t be helped.

He considered whether it was at all likely that Elorza was holding Lestrade as security for his delivery of the funds. But if Elorza had taken such a step, he presumed, Elorza would have taken care to let him know of it. And there was no reason, Mycroft was certain, that Elorza should imagine that he, Vasco, cared enough about his property agent to allow himself to be blackmailed concerning the man’s welfare.

So, Lestrade was likely not with Elorza’s men. This left a more disquieting possibility. Whoever had taken the bloodstained photograph of Lestrade outside of his flat, and left it at the scene of the murder of the coin dealer Ayala, in Bilbao.

Mycroft cursed his height. If he had to go searching the town this time of night, his presence would be very noticeable. Most of the bars were closed now, though. Lestrade was nowhere to be seen. But he felt a creeping feeling at the back of his neck, and whipped around fast enough to see a vaguely familiar face disappear at the end of the street. He ducked into the alley and followed. And was surprised to see the Algerian waiter from lunch waiting for him anxiously.

"Oh, Monsieur Vasco, thank God you’re here," he said obsequiously. "Remember me – Yussuf, from the restaurant. It’s not my fault. He just – ran out."

"He?"

"Monsieur Lamont. Your friend," the waiter said with emphasis. Mycroft ignored this and grabbed the little fellow by the collar.

"Tell me where Guy Lamont is," he said softly.

"He went down there –" Yussuf pointed down the dark alley. "I think he saw someone he knew. I heard a gun shot. But when I looked . . . he was gone."

Mycroft pulled Yussuf along with him into the alley. There was a smeared trail of fresh blood. He found a spent bullet casing in the street and pocketed it.

"You know who did this, don’t you?" Mycroft said. Yussuf blanched and shook his head. "Did you hear any car?"

"The police drove by." Mycroft considered the probability of the police being in on it. Whatever it was.

Mycroft began searching the alley minutely, cursing the dim light. Yussuf watched curiously, thinking that the rich American was completely crazy.

"Think," Mycroft said to Yussuf. "Did you see the police car before, or after, you heard the gunshot?"

"I think . . . before."

"And you’re certain you heard no car afterward?"

"I don’t think so. But, monsieur, there was music from the nightclub, you know, I could have missed it."

"Where is this nightclub?"

Yussuf pointed to the wall. "In here. My apartment is on top. It is hard to sleep."

Mycroft walked along the wall. There was a narrow metal door here. It had a sturdy lock. And shining in the light of a dim overhead bulb above the door was a silvery hunk of hair, stuck in the frame of the door. Hair that looked very like Lestrade’s. If Yussuf was right, Lestrade had not been taken from this place by car. So, he was still nearby. Behind this door, for example.

"Go to the end of the street," Mycroft said. "Signal me if you see anyone coming. I’ll pay you," he added, and Yussuf looked aggrieved but did as Mycroft asked. Mycroft pulled the gun and wrapped it in his coat, and pressed it against the lock. He fired. There was a loud metallic ping and boom despite the coat, and he heard voices of alarm. He ignored them and kicked the door in.

* * *

It was a sort of store room. Inside, on a bloody floor, were two men. One was clearly dead, eyes staring, chest full of bullets and his face bashed in.

The other was bound to a chair tipped onto the floor. He had silvery hair, but that was hard to see as it was completely drenched with dark blood. He was not moving. A gun lay near his bound hands.

Mycroft afterward could not remember anything much about finding Lestrade in this place. Mostly, what he would remember was the horrible sound that issued from Lestrade’s throat as he roughly pulled the rope away from his legs, and looking down to see blood seeping from pulverized bone.

Mycroft had never experienced pain so deep, so sharp, that he thought he must bleed, too. His mind filled with a reddish haze, a gathering knot of mixed grief and rage, overpowering and nearly uncontrollable.

But none of that would help Lestrade, and he willed himself to hold this storm firmly in check.

He wiped the blood gently from Lestrade’s face. Lestrade was very pale, groaning, half-conscious. Mycroft lifted him up, taking care not to put any weight on the crushed leg. Yussuf crept up and gently helped support Lestrade.

"I have to get him to a doctor. Right now, you understand? Help me to the car." Mycroft spared a glance for the dead man. "Take his wallet, and anything else he has. And the gun," Mycroft said, and Yussuf gulped, but knelt and complied. Then he helped Mycroft gently lay Lestrade in the back of the car, where Mycroft held his head in his lap. He wrapped Lestrade’s head wound in an improvised bandage he tore from his own shirt. Yussuf drove.

"We have to go to hospital," Yussuf said. "There is nothing else till morning, I think." Mycroft nodded approval. He hated to think of the risk of public scrutiny to Lestrade’s injuries. They would explain the crushed leg, he decided, by claiming they had found Lestrade in the street, the victim of a hit-and-run accident, or possibly a random mugging. If they were lucky, they might even be believed.

Lestrade’s eyes fluttered open. "You found me," he whispered. Mycroft pressed Lestrade’s cold hand to his lips.

"Hold on," Mycroft said. "You’re with me, you’re safe now."

He sent up a prayer to any power that might be watching over them now, that this might be true.

　

To be continued. . .


	8. Calculated Risks.

Mycroft judged, correctly, that the night shift surgeon could be persuaded to keep Monsieur Lamont’s gruesome wounds from becoming a matter for the local police. Mycroft delivered his bribe, together with veiled threats, with the utmost gentility.

Lestrade’s shin bone was fractured, nearly crushed; the doctor, fortunately a competent surgeon, reinforced the bone with a steel plate and encased it in a cast. He stitched Lestrade’s head wound, and insisted upon a scan of Lestrade’s skull (which was, thankfully, normal.)

However, unsatisfied that he was completely stable, the doctor protested when Mycroft insisted on Lestrade being discharged into his care at once.

“Are you certain you cannot leave him with us – for just a day or two, Monsieur?” The surgeon looked upon Lestrade’s greyish pallor, and then upon Mycroft, with Gallic severity. Mycroft was sorely tempted, but the town was too small. There seemed to be enemy eyes everywhere. Despite his competent work, Mycroft distrusted even the surgeon, who accepted Lestrade’s gruesome wounds with more sang-froid, Mycroft was certain, than was reasonable in a resort town.

“I am certain,” Mycroft said coolly. “He mustn’t walk on it for at least a day,” the doctor called after him as he wheeled Lestrade back to the car, where Yussuf was waiting, alert, behind the wheel. Yussuf started driving at Mycroft’s direction.

* * *

Mycroft processed his memories (photographic) of his ETA files, and reconciled them with what he had learned so far: from the events in Bilbao; in La Bastide-Clairence. He minutely studied the items he had taken from the bodies of Elorza’s men, left dead on the floor of his villa in St.-Jean-de-Luz. He especially focused on the contents of the pockets of the dead man, Lestrade’s torturer. There was a mobile, a bundle of keys, a small quantity of cash, and Lestrade’s own false passport for his alias Guy Lamont.

This had a small note folded into it. It was a telephone number, seemingly in Lestrade’s own handwriting. He shook Lestrade gently, hating to disturb him, but he had to know.

“Greg, what is this? Did you write this?”

Lestrade’s eyes fluttered, but he was able to focus for a moment. “My cousin. Edouard.”

Mycroft remembered Lestrade saying that the little house in St. Bastide-Clairence belonged to his cousin Edouard. Who worked for the renowned chef Alain Ducasse — whose restaurant on this coast had been bombed by ETA.

“Do you trust Edouard?”

Lestrade frowned. The painkillers were slowing his thoughts, bringing a curtain of sleep over his eyes. “He’s . . . my cousin,” he whispered as a deep sleep took him over. “ ‘Course . . .shouldn’t I?”

Mycroft refrained from pointing out how very coincidental it seemed that Lestrade had been ambushed the very first night – in Edouard’s own house.

If it had been anyone else in the world, Mycroft would have pursued an interrogation of sorts about this Edouard, about everything that had happened since they parted in St-Jean-de-Luz.

But Mycroft found that all he really wanted to do was just watch the drugged sleep take over, relaxing the lines of pain and anxiety from Greg’s face.

* * *

Yussuf said over his shoulder, “Sir, do you want I should keep driving? Boss expects me at the restaurant in a few hours.” His eyes were nervous, seemed more than curious about the dangers this night had brought.

Mycroft considered this. “I want you to think very carefully, Yussuf. Tell me — Have you ever heard anything about your boss’s boss?”

Yussuf looked terrified and licked his lips. “I try hard not to hear anything when the boss is talking, Monsieur.”

“Come now. You don’t expect me to believe any longer that you are in St.-Jean-de-Luz just to wait tables. You wanted to get close to Elorza and his men. Why? Don’t lie to me,” Mycroft said softly, but in a chilling voice that left no doubt that Mycroft would get his answers. One way or another.

Yussuf gulped and said shakily, “For my brother. He had a restaurant and little hotel here. He was trying to get enough money to bring my mother, me and my younger brothers, over. But they were driving him out of business. He told me — it was Elorza. A few months ago, they started wanting more, and then even more . . .they said, it was the new orders. He had to pay double.”

“New orders? From whom?”

“From someone even higher than Elorza,” Yussuf said softly, as though even here, alone in this car, they might be overheard. “And when he couldn’t pay, my brother just – disappeared. And the restaurant – it burned. And you – and Monsieur Lamont – you are against these men, too, aren’t you? You aren’t buying a nightclub.”

Mycroft realized that of course, this had to be quite obvious by now, after all Yussuf had seen and heard this night. Under ordinary circumstances he would be prone to putting Yussuf entirely out of the way for knowing too much; but, the man had helped him find Greg, and he had to know by now helping them was at risk to himself.

And then, there were Greg’s own . . . feelings to consider. This sort of consideration was rather new, unexpected; Mycroft really was rather ruthless with other people’s feelings. Occasionally, when he stopped to examine how very ruthless he had become, he reminded himself that it did not come at all naturally to him, but that it was a sacrifice of sorts: necessary for his job, and he was very, very good at his job. It sometimes comforted him to know that his ruthlessness was not of the same quality as that of his brother. At least, he could still say that.

Now Mycroft realized, with clarity, that despite this carefully cultivated ruthlessness, he didn’t like to think what Greg might do if he just disposed of Yussuf as a liability.

And so, Mycroft decided to take the calculated risk of trusting Yussuf – to a small degree.

* * *

“You’re trying to find out who ordered reprisals against your brother,” Mycroft declared. “Very risky, Yussuf. You cannot disappear now. They’ll realize something is wrong. You were seen serving our table yesterday. You may have been seen in town with Monsieur Lamont, last night. If anyone should ask, just say - you got him to buy you a drink, and then he left. You don’t know where he went, understand? Go back to work, be on time. And try to find out where Elorza’s boss is hiding.”

He wished very much he could just ask Yussuf if he had ever heard the name, “Aguirre,” but it was too great a risk. If he should be captured, tortured as Greg had been tortured – here he had to pause and let the red haze dissipate from his mind in order to continue his tactical analysis – he did not want Yussuf to be in any position to reveal that the American, Monsieur Vasco, had spoken the name of Aguirre, the shadowy Basque terrorist.

“What if I already know where he is hiding?” Yussuf said softly.

Mycroft went still. “What do you mean?”

“The day before you came, some men came to meet with Monsieur Elorza. I never saw them before. Their car was very dirty, like it had been driven a long way. Monsieur Elorza seemed as if maybe even he was afraid of these men, right? Monsieur Elorza told me to park their car out of sight. So I drove it down to the garage at the end of the street.”

“You found something in the car?”

Yussuf nodded solemnly. He pulled a small thin object from his pocket and handed it to Mycroft.

“It was under the front seat. It had been there for a while, I think. Maybe they stole that car and took this off, so no one would recognize it, yes?”

It was a laminated oval shaped sticker with a gold border and a name in green letters, the sort that commonly was put on car bumpers or rear windows. It was dirty and folded in half and indeed looked as if it had been peeled roughly off of a car bumper. Mycroft read the word, “WILLENCOURT.”

The name meant nothing. He imagined, however, that Yussuf already knew. He looked inquiringly at Yussuf and he said, “A village in the Pas-de-Calais.”

Mycroft mentally calculated, frowning just slightly. If Yussuf was correct, the men who had visited Elorza had come a distance of 800 kilometers. Very far from the Basque Country.

He questioned Yussuf closely about the men who had driven the car, but he could describe them only vaguely, that they had looked Basque. He had heard little of their conversation. But what he did hear brought Mycroft a sharp prickling sense of danger.

“The men spoke of . . .All Souls’ Day. It is the greatest festival of the year, you understand, for the Basque. But . . . the way they spoke, I think it was more than just the festival.”

“You need to leave this with me, Yussuf. You see what they have done to Monsieur Lamont?”

Yussuf nodded, eyes welled with tears of with pity. Mycroft thought then that the man was still very young, possibly courageous, but much too soft for what he was trying to take on.

“I want to come with you and Monsieur Lamont. I can help you,” he said boldly, as though he could read Mycroft’s thoughts. This, more than anything else, impressed Mycroft. Perhaps he did have a talent of sorts, for observation.

The safest thing would be to give him a few thousand euros and put him on a train to Paris, with an introduction to one of Mycroft’s best suppliers of false papers. A plan crystalized.

“Yussuf. You know I can’t let you come with us, it is too dangerous. And I – we - can help each other. Go back to the restaurant. You must listen to everything, but carefully, you understand? . I promise you, if I am able, I will find out what happened to your brother.”

“All I ask is for you to tell me,” Yussuf said vehemently. “It is my business. I am the eldest, now.”

“If I can. If you hear anything, go to the internet café at the end of Rue des Lilliane, you know the one? Good. Send an email to this address. Memorize it, never write it anywhere. Don’t say anything in the email other than just this: ‘Mother is sick again. Come when you can.’ I will find a way to contact you.” Mycroft held up a scrap of paper with a simple series of numbers and letters, a temporary and untraceable email account. “After, I will help you get out of here, to Paris. Start over.”

“I won’t leave here until I know what happened to my brother.”

Mycroft understood this very well. Almost too many times to really count by now, he had been in Yussuf’s place. Wondering what had happened to his brother. Determined to do anything to find out. And where possible, make them pay.

Sherlock had no idea, he was certain, of the . . .extent of his reprisals. And although almost entirely ignorant of the truth, Sherlock had nevertheless told John on the very first day that they met that Mycroft was the most dangerous man John would ever meet. Others would call it fraternal instinct; Sherlock himself would never admit to such a thing.

Mycroft wondered, not for the first time, whether Sherlock had by now become sufficiently intrigued by his sudden disappearance to do a little investigating of his own. He was confident Sherlock could have learned nothing from Morris, his butler, or from searching his townhouse in St. John’s Wood, which he could almost be certain Sherlock (and John) had done, and thoroughly.

This led to a wish that he could go over the case with Sherlock, let that hyperactive and exquisitely brilliant brain sift, weigh, value the known facts and — he stopped himself before the thought – help him, before it was too late – could coalesce into anything like a conscious wish.

* * *

After leaving Yussuf in St.-Jean-de-Luz, Mycroft began the drive to Willencourt.

When Lestrade woke, he manfully attempted to suppress the pain in his leg, cramped from being unable to either properly extend or lift it in the confines of the car, swollen and sharply throbbing inside its cast. Mycroft told him everything that had happened: the meeting with Elorza; being taken by Elorza’s men back to the villa to retrieve payoff money, finding that Lestrade was not there. And he told him, in clinical terms, that he had been forced to kill Elorza’s men to get free. To find Lestrade.

Finding Lestrade. Mycroft carefully tried to conceal the tremor in his voice at the memory of this, but it was an abysmal failure, and Lestrade just clenched his hand, tight.

And he recounted what he had learned from Yussuf, explaining that he thought it just possible, maybe more than that, that Aguirre was now in Willencourt, an almost unknown village in the French countryside. It was far from his ETA associates and the scrutiny of joint Spanish and French police forces.

But if far from the Basque Country, the village of Willencourt was not far from Calais, across the English Channel to Dover. It was situated in the department of Pas-de-Calais, a region known primarily for coal mining and its proximity to the Somme, site of some of the most horrific battles of World War I.

The events of the past week he allowed to come into sharp focus as he drove, mile after mile of alternating countryside, villages, cities, the sun cresting and then beginning again to set.

His trip to Ascot, chasing the phantom of a fleeting security tape image of Aguirre, who had infiltrated the stable staff at the Ascot racetrack. So very close to the Queen’s residence at Windsor, also the celebrated venue for several noted gatherings of Royals for horse racing events.

The death of agent 009, Robert Roussel, in London. On the very doorstep of his own house in St. John’s Wood. Leaving Lestrade the mysterious Dies Irae coin. Warning him of danger from the inside. From 009, that could only mean from inside MI6.

Bilbao, where he had found a photograph of Lestrade where he never could have expected to see it – under the dead body of the old coin dealer, Senor Ayala. Mycroft had just missed his assassin by moments.

La Bastide-Clairence, where Lestrade should have been safe and anonymous, at his cousin’s house. Instead, he nearly was killed by an assassin lying in wait in the woods.

St.-Jean-de-Luz, where Mycroft had temporarily succeeded in duping the local ETA captain into trusting him – just a little – with the promise of American riches in return, maybe, for a meeting with the ETA command – but Lestrade had been followed, captured, and brutally tortured.

Ascot.

London.

Bilbao.

La Bastide-Clairence.

St.-Jean-de-Luz.

Willencourt.

He glanced at Greg’s profile, his face now shadowed with stubble – neither of them had shaved – and observed his pain. In each of these places – London, Bilbao, La Bastide-Clairence, St-Jean-de-Luz – they had barely stayed a step ahead of their shadowy enemies.

Bombings in Madrid, Dublin, and now, Mycroft had learned from listening to the radio, Indonesia.

In Borneo, in fact, which seemed strange: out of place, initially, but his mechanical, photographic recall was steadily working on this.

He knew that shortly he would remember why Borneo made sense, would fit the puzzle, after all.

* * *

Lestrade was concentrating on trying to ride out the shooting pains from the jostling of his throbbing leg. He had a bottle of pain pills and he had no intention of taking any. He had seen Mycroft checking his watch and wondered if Mycroft knew when he was supposed to take a pill. If he would give him grief. He wasn’t much in the mood for any grief. He needed his mind clear.

He needed not to be a liability.

He remembered the roof of New Scotland Yard, Mycroft’s dramatic helicopter landing, his thought, then, that Mycroft didn’t need to try and impress him, not like that. He wondered whether he was trying to impress Mycroft, now that he had a better understanding that this man was not even close to the desk-bound shadowy diplomat that he had always supposed him to be.

He grinned to himself. Just a little. If he was trying to impress Mycroft, which he allowed was just possible, he bloody well hoped the man was impressed by now.

Three times, men had tried to kill him since he left London. Three times, he had come out alive and left his would-be killer dead.

Lestrade was not a killer by nature.

But had to admit that he took grim satisfaction in the fact that he was when he had to be.

“Calais? Why couldn’t we have taken the bloody boat, then?” Lestrade queried, half-jokingly to distract himself from the pain.

“They would have been watching the boat. Every minute since I bought it. That was part of the plan, initially.” He had no intention of telling Lestrade that his first plan for departing St.-Jean-de-Luz had been to have Yussuf walk down the dock, alone, and try to board the little boat. When the expected ambush occurred, Mycroft would take out the attackers with his sniper rifle, currently disassembled in a case in the trunk.

No, Lestrade didn’t need to hear about that right now.

“I’m– very sorry I couldn’t leave you in hospital in St.-Jean-de-Luz,” he said stiffly. When Lestrade was sitting by him, which he insisted on doing, holding in all that pain, Mycroft felt the heavy weight of responsibility, which felt exactly like an actual weight on his heart, and it the guilt of it made him feel smaller somehow. Unworthy.

He had already decided he wasn’t going to insult Lestrade’s honor by asking him whether he had given anything up, in that evil room, while that man had viciously pulverized his bones with an iron bar. He was definitely sure he hadn’t. He felt he knew Lestrade, far better than he had a right to, actually: through inappropriate surveillance and snooping that he only recently had been forced to recognize had slowly begun to be driven by feelings deeper than professional and personal curiosity about this man whose fate was so closely tied to Sherlock’s. And what he knew, even without resorting to his illicit store of knowledge about Gregory Lestrade, was that his bravery was unquestionable.

Lestrade was watching him.

“I didn’t say anything,” he said.

Mycroft was suddenly dismayed. Lestrade didn’t understand him at all, it seemed. “I never would have asked you that,” he said flatly.

“I know it,” Lestrade said calmly. His voice was warm, even with the pain. Mycroft’s heart turned some kind of somersault and he realized that what he had thought before was falling, was nothing at all, just a small step, and now he felt like he was falling off of a very high cliff. But he wasn’t afraid.

“But you deserved to hear it and so I’m telling you,” Lestrade continued. “They thought I was Lamont, never once asked about my real name, or yours. I let him. . . work it out of me . . . that you were looking for a way in to the Basque freedom movement. It doesn’t matter anyway. He never used his mobile, no one else was there. And he was going to kill me, I expect they were intending to kill you, too. But– I got him. So whatever I told him, is gone.”

Mycroft’s face was an impassive mask. “They will pay,” he said. Lestrade didn’t even think of arguing with that.

* * *

“Mycroft. I remember now. The man in the alley. The first man. He tried to kill me, but I — he’s dead. I’d seen him before. But then – the other one — he hit me on the back of the head. When I woke up, I was tied up in that room.” Suddenly he felt like maybe it was time to sleep again, but he shook it off.

“Tell me. What do you remember?” That body had been removed, presumably by local police.

“London. I’ve seen his face in London. I know it.”

Mycroft’s brain started working furiously on that. “Where? When?”

“I think. . . .in the street. Outside your house, Mycroft. Your house. There were men there, in the street, and I remember you said I was being watched, all the time, and I was safe. I though they were all your men, at the time. I guess I was wrong.”

“You weren’t.” Mycroft felt cold. Now it was all becoming clearer. Lestrade’s photograph, under Ayala’s body. Lestrade assaulted in an alley in St-Jean-de-Luz. Agents from MI6. From inside. Just as 009 had warned. Closer than Mycroft had suspected. They had been surveilling Mycroft’s house, had taken Lestrade’s picture going in. He had already worked out that this meant that Mycroft’s own people, someone inside MI6, had assassinated old Ayala: they, or their hired gun, were the only ones who would be carrying Lestrade’s photo, taken outside Mycroft’s own doorstep.

Now he knew that someone from MI6, someone from London, someone he had thought was a good agent, a trusted agent – had caught up with Lestrade in that alley in St.Jean-de-Luz. And had been ignorant of the fact that someone else – one of Elorza’s men? was watching Lestrade too.

“When we get to Willencourt I am going to show you some photographs, and you can try and tell me if you can identify any of them as the man from the alley.” Lestrade nodded. The pain in his leg was really quite unbearable. It felt on fire.

“We’re almost there. Take one, we aren’t going to do anything till morning, or maybe not even then,” Mycroft said. This wasn’t really true. He felt now the racing of the clock. If Yussuf was right, All Souls’ Day was marked for some kind of dramatic action by the Day of Wrath conspirators. And that was just two days away.

* * *

The village of Willencourt was in the complete darkness of the countryside when they finally finished their journey, and gratefully pulled into the court of a little farmhouse with a sign for holiday cottage rentals. It was cheerful, safe-looking. Mycroft made the arrangements in cash and took the cottage at the farthest end of the property, a sizeable farm invisible in the darkness.

He nearly carried Lestrade, stiff and aching, from the car to the cottage, and gently deposited him in one of the beds. He pulled the pill bottle from his pocket and shook out a pill. He retrieved a glass of water and stood ominously over the bed while Lestrade folded his arms stubbornly.

“I don’t need it. I’m not even sleepy, I must have dozed half the way. Anyway, I’m not taking it.” He looked up at Mycroft, who looked both determined and stricken, apparently at the thought that Lestrade was suffering. And hell, he was, but he was damned if he would show it, especially to Mycroft.

“Look, I’m fine. It doesn’t even hurt half as much,” he said with false brightness.

Mycroft looked stern. “Greg. Please. Some respect for my faculties. I am perfectly aware of the quality of pain inflicted by . . . .wounds of this nature. It is . . .difficult. For me. To see you in pain. Don’t you see? So, take one.”

“Are you asking me to do it, for you?” He didn’t really understand why the stricken look on Mycroft’s face was making him feel warmer through all that pain. He tried to grab onto that feeling, hold onto that.

Mycroft nodded seriously. “I’m afraid I’ll even beg. If that’s what it takes. Alternatively, I could – insist. Either way, you’re taking it.”

They looked at each other for a long moment, just thinking about that. Lestrade snatched the pill, bit it in half, and swallowed it before Mycroft could protest. The other half he tossed into a dark corner.

“Compromise, Mycroft. I think that’s what is called a compromise.”

“Only because of your weakened condition am I allowing you to get away with —“ Mycroft looked almost angry. Lestrade was finding this rather interesting.

“Used to people obeying all your orders, I guess,” he said, half playfully. “Don’t think that’ll work on me.” He almost could laugh through his pain, although there was nothing funny, not at all, about the situation they were in. So he stopped, and lay back against the cushions and watched while Mycroft gently and methodically arranged his pillows and blankets, and took all the pillows from the second bed to make a sort of elevated platform for his tormented leg, throbbing in the awkwardly heavy cast, propping more pillows to stop the weight of it sliding sideways.

“Mycroft.”

“Shhh. I would like you to rest. Please.”

“I told you, I’m not tired and I don’t need rest. What are we going to do here? We need to talk about a plan. We barely made it out of St.-Jean-de-Luz, in case you didn’t notice.”

Mycroft’s smile was completely malicious. “I assure you, you needn’t worry. Not about me. And don’t be so modest, Greg. It hasn’t escaped my notice that three assassins have fallen at your own hand. And I do have a plan. But we aren’t going to talk about it right now. Because I want you to rest. I believe I’ve said that already. Are you always this stubborn?”

“Not usually, no. Maybe you bring it out.”

Mycroft sat in an armchair opposite Lestrade’s bed. Lestrade thought the distance too much, really, under the circumstances. Mycroft gave every sign of preparing to keep vigil over Lestrade again while he slept. He had no blanket, he did not remove any of his clothing. He simply leaned back in the chair, extending his ridiculously long legs across a little footstool, folded his arms across his chest, and regarded Lestrade watchfully.

* * *

Lestrade felt the pain pill (half) start to kick in. Rather than make him drowsy, it made him feel a just a little high. The pain in his leg receded. He suddenly felt very comfortable just sitting with Mycroft like this. Even though he knew that this peacefulness was utterly false, enforced by Mycroft’s will and the agony in his pulverized leg.

Soon, they would have to be moving, and moving fast, toward danger.

But Mycroft clearly wasn’t going anywhere tonight, and the truth of it was, that was all right.

He decided to indulge Mycroft a little. He closed his eyes. The pain pill was making him a little giddy. Then there was a small pressure on his forehead and he sensed that Mycroft was pressing his fingertips lightly against his forehead, possibly to check for a fever. But it didn’t feel like that, or maybe he just didn’t want it to feel like that.

“Don’t stop,” he murmured.

“I’m sorry,” Mycroft said softly, gently, almost brokenly, and Lestrade knew what he meant. He was blaming himself for his ordeal.

“No,” he said, louder than he intended to, and of its own volition his hand was reaching up and grabbing at Mycroft’s long fingers, and he put his lips to the palm of Mycroft’s hand and refused to let it go. But he was weaker than he thought, from the pill, from the pain, and then there was the bash on the back of his skull that he thought might me making him more muddled than he had realized. Mycroft pulled his hand from Lestrade’s grasp and took a step back.

“Stop that. Don’t you see –“ Mycroft was still standing close to the bed, but had pulled his hands behind him. Like he didn’t trust himself not to touch, like he shouldn’t touch. “You’re – ill, you’re wounded. I’m going to take care of you. We can’t.”

“Can’t?”

“Can’t do that,” Mycroft said, with a tone of voice Lestrade could swear was nearly prudish. This was a puzzle, but he wasn’t in any shape to figure it out. But he had already decided he’d had enough of Mycroft ordering him around for one night, so he reached out again, and this time, he pulled Mycroft’s hand under his shirt, so he would have to feel his bare skin, his heart beating there, strong and true.

Mycroft was very still, and Lestrade was sure he could hear his breathing catch a little before he leaned down and very softly kissed him, as though Lestrade was a exceptionally fragile and might even break. But after a long moment he gave up trying to hold himself back and sank down to his knees, still just kissing, but pressing harder with his warm hand, feeling Lestrade’s heartbeat.

“Do you feel that?” Lestrade murmured into Mycroft’s neck, feeling the prickle of little hairs because they hadn’t shaved, smelling his unique scent that was an expensive cologne, light and crisp, mixed with the faint smoky Oolong tea that he favored. “That’s my heart. You’re making it beat faster.” He knew he shouldn’t tease Mycroft, in the condition he was in, but he couldn’t resist just letting his lips drift down to Mycroft’s throat, long and pale and there was a place there he could press his lips and feel Mycroft’s heartbeat too. It was beating fast, faster than his own, although Mycroft was holding himself perfectly in check. Too perfectly.

It was futile to pretend that both of them weren’t hard. Lestrade might have groaned a little against Mycroft’s neck, now warm and a little damp from his mouth, and Mycroft just sucked in a breath like he was holding himself against something strong.

“Come on, then,” Lestrade said, “You won’t hurt me, I want this, don’t say no,” he said, trying to pull Mycroft’s hand lower. Mycroft kissed him again, but this time, whatever gentlemanly scruples about hurting him or taking advantage of his frail state had fallen completely away, and he dragged his mouth down. He tugged Lestrade’s pants wide open, but gently, careful not to press against his wounded leg, and freed his cock for just a brief moment before taking him in his mouth, so deep and smooth, just fucking him with his mouth, with his lips, the most amazing delicacy alternating with firmness, tongue and throat, letting the speed increase gradually, giving him time to feel every flicker as that fire grew, expanded, flared up and burned.

He couldn’t stop his cock thrusting up to meet that luscious friction and wetness, but Mycroft pushed him down and held him there, refusing to let him move.

Now there was no sensation in the world but Mycroft’s mouth just working his cock with exquisite finesse, not letting the slightest weight from his supporting arm disturb his injured leg, now entirely forgotten. Mycroft’s other hand stole up to cup his balls, and when he dragged his fingers under them, stroking the tender skin between his balls and his hole, he groaned out loud as it raised a burning trail beneath them.

Lestrade reached his own hand down, straining to reach Mycroft’s cock, but Mycroft firmly pushed his hand away, held it there, and stopped his mouth working his cock only long enough to say, “Don’t move again,” before he swallowed his cock even deeper, and Lestrade’s head tipped back in abandon. Now Lestrade could feel Mycroft’s cock grinding against the side of the bed. This made him frustrated: that Mycroft was denying him this, desperate to touch it, to be able to feel Mycroft, make him come. He felt his own release just out of reach as Mycroft expertly played him out, shaking the bed a little as he couldn’t help grinding against it.

Lestrade gasped, “Do it then, touch yourself,” pulling his head up, all the way up and off of his throbbing cock, and looked into Mycroft’s eyes, not letting him look away, seeing it all there, Mycroft’s raging desire, held firmly in check, and Lestrade melted before what he saw, all for him. But Lestrade wouldn’t let his mouth back on his cock until he saw Mycroft free his own prick, stiff, red and leaking. They stared at each other as Mycroft slowly took his own thumb and pressed it against his slit, rubbing the precome over his head until it shone. He leaned in to devour Lestrade’s mouth and gasped into it while he touched himself. Lestrade he tasted his own salt on Mycroft’s tongue. Mycroft took his mouth away long enough to lick his own palm, suck his own fingers, while Lestrade panted raggedly, watching.

Mycroft gently climbed halfway up on the bed, one leg pressed against the mattress and the other braced on the floor. The sight of Mycroft’s fingers wrapped around his own cock, making himself shudder and quake, stroking first slowly, then fast while he leaned over to work his mouth over Lestrade’s cock, inflamed him, head spinning, knowing Mycroft was thinking only of him, wanting him to watch, to see, and of all the things he wanted to do to him, things maybe he hadn’t had the nerve to ask. It was intensely intimate and maybe even a little depraved. He wondered if Mycroft wanted to watch him touch himself, too, and bucked under Mycroft’s mouth with the sparkle of lust that washed over him at the thought. He plunged his hands into Mycroft’s hair, pushing his head down, harder over his cock, heedless of his warnings not to move.

Mycroft groaned and swallowed him deeper, then released his cock entirely, and did it again. And again. And held him down and still, making him take it, while he watched Mycroft’s cock grow massively harder under his hands, his stroke evenly matching the friction of his lips and tongue.

He was desperate now to see Mycroft come, and he said so, urging him, “God, Mycroft, do it, come, you’re making me come,” as his orgasm broke, Mycroft swallowing and sucking the salty come down his throat even as he shot hard in his own hand, copiously covering the sheets. Mycroft was moaning deep and hard with Lestrade’s cock in his mouth, still quivering, and sucked and licked gently until he was soft again, then rose up gracefully, bringing a warm moist towel to clean the stickiness from them both.

“Mycroft, come in the bed, I don’t want you over there,” Lestrade said, drowsy at last. Beds in French farmhouses were ridiculously narrow, he thought. Another reason to make their stay here a brief one.

Mycroft kissed him again, now with great gentleness, and said no, he didn’t want to crowd his leg, he would be fine in the chair. Lestrade was going to argue with him about his refusal to go to sleep while he slept, but the words never escaped from his lips, and Mycroft rearranged his blankets and the pillows around his leg with care before lightly caressing the outline of his plaster cast, then settling himself back in the armchair to watch.

He had a loaded pistol on the table beside him.

* * *

The next day, Lestrade woke before sunrise to see Mycroft plying the mobiles he had seized from Elorza’s men, and the mobile he had taken from his torturer, making little notes and looking fascinated with what he was finding.

Lestrade experimented with putting weight on his bad leg. It was excruciating, but he did it. Mycroft had somehow acquired a rustic, smooth walking stick make of a polished tree branch, which he handed to him with a firm gesture that made clear he expected no argument whatsoever from Lestrade about using it. He knew he needed it, and so he accepted it and took a few stumping turns around the little room. It would do.

“Mycroft, do you think we might be losing the forest for the trees?”

“Hmmm? What do you mean, exactly?” Mycroft stopped scribbling and waited to hear what Lestrade was thinking. In this he was entirely different to his brother Sherlock. Sherlock could rarely be bothered to listen to anyone but himself; sometimes John, and very occasionally, Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. Sometimes Lestrade realized that Sherlock had actually heard something he said, but didn’t give any sign of having done so for weeks, sometimes months, after the fact. Mycroft, in contrast, was a gifted listener, calm and patient and focused, and was possessed, Lestrade knew, of a perfect and vivid memory.

“I mean, you – we– are looking for your mastermind. Won’t there be others that can take over? We can’t catch them all. Look at Al Qaeda. It’s like a hydra: cut off one head, two others spring up.”

“True, but even with a hydra, and you have to start striking somewhere.”

“But, Mycroft – listen: the bombings are in Madrid, Dublin, and Borneo. So far. It’s not all ETA, it can’t be, that makes no sense. Whatever the Day of Wrath is, it’s more than ETA, more than Basque separatism. It has to be. Shouldn’t we be trying to anticipate what they might do next, what their ultimate plan is?”

Mycroft nodded. “I happen to quite agree with you. You are entirely correct. If I were able to trust anyone at MI6 – which I cannot — I would have the resources to do as you suggest. I would send out specialist, coordinated teams. I can’t do that, we can’t do that. But we can, if we are very lucky, perhaps catch one man. Or if we can’t catch him, we can follow him. Maybe we can learn his secrets. That is something I can do, something we can do. All we can do is keep on.”

Lestrade nodded. It wasn’t terribly different than the undercover drugs operations he had done, years ago now, but the memories of it still vivid, the danger, fear. Excitement, too: hell, yes. You didn’t go into this kind of work if it didn’t pull you in that way, if you didn’t need it at some level. Otherwise it would knock you over and take you down.

He tried another round of the room and the cane caught on the edge of a chair and he almost fell, but Mycroft caught him before he could even see him move. He laughed a little, amazed.

“Your reflexes – that’s . . . almost impossible.”

“It’s true. I have abnormally fast reflexes. It’s not something that can be learned, but it can be enhanced. There is a program — look, we don’t need to talk about this now.” In fact Mycroft was deeply uncomfortable approaching the territory of his clandestine training. As an assassin. And more. Lestrade was a policeman, a detective, and while he had fought and caught more than his fare share of criminals in his time, he had always done so with complete integrity. Never had there been a hint that Lestrade had ever twisted the rules, planted evidence, obtained a bogus warrant, framed a suspect; in short, he was as clean as coppers got.

And Mycroft — he knew he could never be clean. Not by Lestrade’s standards. He knew that Lestrade was starting to suspect this vast gulf between them, and this entire operation, unexpected, messy and deadly, wasn’t helping.

He decided that there was nothing to be done about it today, and folded these thoughts carefully away to worry about later. Mycroft had an almost unlimited capacity for worrying, and had entered previously unsounded depths of worrying now that Greg Lestrade was in his life. But now, the best way to keep him safe, the very uppermost of the worries, was to find a way to nail the mole in MI6.

The man (he was nearly certain it was a man, if only because there were still so few female operatives at the level he judged this mole must operate in) who was threatening Lestrade, and in so doing, obviously intending to threaten Mycroft.

This was a familiar game that he had watched Sherlock and John endure; he didn’t intend to play this game in quite the same way.

But thoughts of Sherlock again made him start to wonder whether, if he couldn’t trust MI6, perhaps he ought to consider trusting someone else, whom he knew he could trust implicitly. Someone who would be able to help. Whose talents, though different, were as great (he admitted privately, never publicly) as his own.

But that would be very selfish. Sherlock and John had been through enough troubles of their own, of late.

And Mummy would never forgive him.

He turned to Lestrade, bit back the words that wanted to come out, which were, you have to stay here, wait for me, I’ll come back for you when this is all over. Because he saw Lestrade was waiting for it, and there was a blackness in his expression that warned him not to try it on. Not this time.

* * *

And so what Mycroft said instead was, “I want to show you these coordinates. Look, here is a satellite view. Here is our farm house, that is us,” He held up a mobile, into which he had plugged certain coordinates gleaned from pings of the captured mobiles, which he was well able to hack. There was a cluster maybe ten miles away as the crow flies, in what looked to be green country hills and dales.

“Two of the three mobiles – one, your – torturer, the other, one of the two men Elorza sent with me – show travel to this location within the past two weeks.” Mycroft zoomed the image, and it was, apparently, an isolated farm in a little valley, set apart from the tiny village of Willencourt.

“Let’s get eyes on it. What shall we do?”

“I’m afraid it’s not that simple. We can’t drive in, that much is obvious. I need to walk in.”

Lestrade was nodding., He saw the difficultly. “Not going to be very clandestine with me stomping around on a crutch.”

“Right. And so you’ll be up on this ridge, here. You’ll be covering me at all times.”

Lestrade studied the image carefully. “It’s out of range of my pistol. I’ll be of no use to you. Not unless we can get me in closer.”

Mycroft smiled wickedly. “I’m not talking about your pistol, Greg. Even though I see that you brought one of my own, it’s just the one I would have chosen for you myself. No, I have something else in mind entirely.”

He pulled out his case, like a briefcase but a little longer. He snapped it open. Inside was a sniper rifle, silencer, and scope, disassembled and waiting in its cushioned compartment.

“I think it’s time I showed you how to use this,” Mycroft said. “You’re on Black Team, it will be perfect.” Black Team was the special elite team of firearms operatives at Scotland Yard to which Lestrade had been assigned for these past three years. When not pursuing his routine compliment of murder inquiries, Lestrade was assigned to Black Team for special missions. It was a great distinction only given to officers with the highest skills with firearms.

But even Lestrade had never been trained as a sniper. There were such operatives, both in Black Team and in the military, of course. He eyed the gleaming rifle with respect.

“Where can we shoot?”

“There are woods nearby. I don’t want anyone to see. But we’ll put the silencer on, and if it’s all clear I’ll let you get off a few rounds. If not, you can feel it, anyway. You’ll have to use your excellent instincts.” It was a calculated risk.

He sounded perfectly confident in Lestrade, for which Lestrade felt absurdly proud.

* * *

As dusk started to fall, they got into position in the hill above the farm compound from the satellite map. It looked dark, deserted. There were no cars in sight.

They waited for half an hour as the sun sank below the hills. Then Mycroft slowly crept down the hill, keeping to the brush and trees, silent and amazingly fast, Lestrade thought, for someone so tall. Lestrade was seated on a rock behind a bush, not the best cover, but he had had to admit that if he lay on the ground, the best position, he would not be able to get up again without help. He had the rifle propped against a branch o f the bush, and was scanning the farm compound below for any movement while keeping an eye following Mycroft’s progress down the hill and stealthily across an open field to the side of the house. His heart was hammering.

Mycroft waited a long time, just barely outlined against the shadows of the house as darkness fell. There was nothing but silence.

Soon, Lestrade realized, it would be too dark for him to see much of anything and he prayed Mycroft would hurry.

Suddenly he saw Mycroft prise open a window, and slink inside.

* * *

Mycroft pressed against the wall of the quiet farm house. It smelled like someone had been cooking; someone had burned a fire in the fireplace yesterday.

He already knew that the lights were out because the power had been cut. He had seen the severed wire on the side of the house. He hesitated, but knew there might not be another opportunity to enter.

Even though it felt like a trap.

He worried about Lestrade, alone on the hill and prayed that no one had seen him there, vulnerable. He would give himself no more than ten minutes, and be back up the hill with whatever he could get.

He had a tiny LED flashlight, whose dim light would not be noticeable from the windows if anyone were looking. He scanned the room, which was furnished with plain wooden country furniture, but then he thought he heard a breath, a scuffle, and a click and he knew he was in very big trouble.

He drew his gun and hit the floor.

There was nothing there. It was all quiet again. His eyes were still adjusting to the dark.

Whoever was in this room had had longer, though.

Why weren’t they shooting? Definitely, that had been the sound of a trigger. He waited. Maybe they hadn’t seen him after all. He wasn’t going to use the flashlight again.

Now his eyes were seeing the outlines of furniture. A little moonlight graced the windows and he saw that no one there. But he knew it hadn’t been his imagination.

Slowly, so slowly, he sat up and crouched on his tiptoes. There was a dark hallway that led away from this room. He wondered if Aguirre was here after all, hiding, shielding himself with darkness.

He had a coin in his pocket. He threw it onto the floor in the dark hall. If someone was waiting there, with a gun, they might shoot.

Nothing happened.

Too much time had passed. He knew he needed to get back to Lestrade. But the electric prickling on the back of his neck told him that he was right. He had come to far to turn back.

He crouched low and ran, nimbly and silently, down the dark hallway that led to a half-open door. He crouched lower still and kicked it open, seeing an empty bed, a dresser, nothing else.

The other door was closed.

He didn’t think there were any other rooms in the little house. The noises he had heard had sounded very near.

Behind this door, for example.

He could just shoot first and ask questions later. But he wanted Aguirre alive, if possible. He had seen enough footage of cowardly fugitive terrorists captured in filthy holes to know it was possible that even the mysterious Aguirre might be cowering behind that door, or scrambling to hide in the cellar.

And so he lay down on the floor and reached up for the doorknob, grateful for his long reach. He took a deep silent inhale, and yanked the door open with one hand while brandishing his gun with the other.

Looking down at him were two very different faces. Neither of which was the terrorist, Aguirre. All of the blood seemed to drain rapidly from his head, settling at some low point in his body. Nevertheless, his hand was steady as he slowly put his gun down.

Because he certainly would have a lot of explaining to do to Mummy if he shot Sherlock. Or John, for that matter. John was putting his gun down too.

Sherlock smirked. “You certainly took your time getting here, Mycroft,” he said.

 

To be continued. . . .


	9. Demon Core.

John saw the strangest look pass between the brothers: Mycroft on the floor, clutching his gun, gone still and betraying perhaps the only expression of actual surprise John had ever seen on his usually inscrutable features; Sherlock staring down, smirk fading to . . .relief?  
They were a still and wary tableaux until Sherlock bent down and gallantly offered Mycroft him his hand up from the floor, which Mycroft accepted. John thought, for just a flicker of a moment, that they might embrace – something else John had never seen – but they parted immediately, awkwardly, and started talking in a clipped, rapidfire rush:

"How?"

"Your Euskara dictionary."

"Ah. What have you told Mummy?"

"That you were on a tour of naval submarines and as such, are incommunicado. She made it clear that she expects a birthday visit. Regardless."

"Permit me to say, Sherlock, that I am astonished you are aware of that particular date."

"I didn’t say that I was. Am I? Anyway, John is."

"MI6?"

"In the dark. Child’s play. Got some money out of them, though."

"How providential. They’ve told you I’m the mole, naturally." Sherlock emitted one of his most expressive snorts. "Someone from London has been close on our heels. Sent by the real mole, of course."

"Don’t state the obvious, Mycroft, " Sherlock spat arrogantly. "Don’t you see – it’s not about the mole. You could find your mole – but not stop the Day of Wrath. Fortunately, I was able to uncover where, and to whom, old Ayala delivered the Dies Irae coins."

"Indeed? I had to leave Bilbao before I could follow that particular thread – chasing down the old coins, most interesting, Sherlock. However, I found St. Jean de Luz ultimately more illuminating. I have developed an inside source."

They looked at each other with one of those wordless and antagonistic exchanges that baffled John. Now Sherlock was pacing. "Yes, I thought it most curious, Mycroft, that you left so much undone in Bilbao. I’ve never known you careless before. Lestrade was the cause, I suppose."

"I found Lestrade’s photograph under Ayala’s body in Bilbao, Sherlock," Mycroft snapped, scowling. "It was necessary to ensure that I got to Lestrade – before they did. Don’t pretend you wouldn’t have done the same if it were John."

Sherlock stopped pacing. "If it were John –" he began haughtily. They were nearly nose to patrician nose: apparently, quite prepared to trade barbed remarks all night.

* * *

John held up his hands. "Listen, let’s please focus, shall we? This isn’t the best time for a Holmes family debate."

The Holmes brothers examined John with apparently surprise that he dared interrupt their salvos. John looked back placidly. It had been a long while since either Mycroft or Sherlock, for that matter, could thwart him with a display of Holmesian arrogance.

"One of the men who received a Dies Irae coin from old Ayala –" Sherlock continued, pausing to ensure Mycroft was still keeping up: Mycroft nodded, minutely, "–set up a meeting here, in Willencourt. With two of the others. For tonight. We recovered security tapes from their drop point – a coin show, in Bilbao."

"Ah. Lip reading can be so convenient."

"Very. So, this is a safe house. Far from suspicious police in the Cote Basque –"

"Convenient to Calais – a ferry ride, a short trip on the TGV train to England. It is the English connection that worries me: Aguirre has been in Ascot. All of this other – havoc– Madrid, Ulster, Borneo – has been a ploy: a distraction, possibly. Do we know where the other coins are destined?" Mycroft frowned, concentrating.

"Some. I have security footage on the exchanges at the coin show. And I have your Ascot file: all of your files, in fact. MI6 are so very naive, Mycroft, I’m astonished you can ever make any use of them."

"I suppose you prefer your-" here Mycroft’s expression appeared to reflect an encounter an odor less than pleasant –"homeless network."

"They haven’t tried to kill me yet," Sherlock observed ascerbically.

"Well, MI6 are blunt instruments, for the most part. But not all. Someone has been rather sharp. In any event, they can hardly have given you all my files," Mycroft sniffed. "Those are kept . . . .never mind."

"I had enough to get on with, Mycroft. As you see."

Mycroft pointedly ignored this and consulted his watch. "We have intelligence that they are planning their move for All Souls’ Day."

"That’s the day after tomorrow . . . .You say intelligence – You infiltrated the group?"

"Nearly, before I was forced to . . .eliminate two of their operatives. Let us say that I obtained information from a collateral source. To whom I owe a debt. We can discuss that later. If they are meeting here, tonight, there isn’t much time. I must get back to Greg. Do you feel able to handle inside? Greg and I will take the house outside. We will join you when they have all arrived. Have you enough ammunition?"

Sherlock looked smug at this, and glanced at John. They both nodded assent. Sherlock pulled out a pistol of his own. Mycroft gave a little nod that might, almost, have been gratitude.

John was about to ask where Lestrade was, when an unmistakable crack and echo resounded through the country silence.

"Cover me," Mycroft said urgently to John, and crawled back out the window into the night.

* * *

"Mycroft!" John hissed. It was too dark, he couldn’t see a thing. "Fuck," he swore, straining, trying to will his eyes to distinguish detail. He thought he saw a tall, dark form darting across the field and disappearing into the brush leading up the hill.

His eyes adjusted and in that instant, John took in three potential targets:

A tall dark shape, moving fast up the hill through brush.

A flash of movement and a darker shadow in the shadow of a tractor parked in the field nearby.

A tiny flash and glint, high up the hill.

Hairs stood on end; his flesh erupted in goosebumps. He knew that glint well. A sniper scope.

He hesitated, furiously processing Mycroft’s last words. Greg had to be nearby; Mycroft had come on foot.

John swerved, aimed out the window, toward the shadow near the tractor that was moving fast now, cold gray shimmering in the moonlight – the barrel of a gun, which he decided was not Mycroft’s, aiming now toward that tall figure moving up the hill – which John decided had to be Mycroft, going toward where Greg was hidden – John pressed his finger to the trigger, ready to squeeze, when a percussive thump was followed by a sharp cry.

Now John heard the familiar sound of a body hitting the ground, grunting. He saw the body writhing in the dirt before the tractor and he prayed he was not wrong, that it wasn’t Mycroft, or Lestrade, who had fallen there.

Sherlock called out in French for the fallen man to identify himself and was answered by a bullet that struck the windowsill, wood fragments flying.

John waited three beats then rose swiftly and answered, accurately striking the fallen man’s arm, and the gun dropped to the ground to the man’s shrieks, which he vainly tried to muffle with his good hand.

* * *

John and Sherlock quickly restrained the fallen man’s arms with John’s belt, and dragged him, shrieking and cursing, inside the house. Sherlock hastily tried to conceal the pool of blood with dirt and grass so as not to alarm the other men who were expected at the rendezvous.

John performed quick triage – the man had been shot in the arm, and the abdomen. He was shaking, already in shock. John shook his head at Sherlock. The abdominal bullet wound was deep and tearing. Without immediate surgery and a transfusion, he wasn’t going to make it.

Sherlock began interrogating the man in French. He was grimly silent. Sherlock continued at him, emphatic – at which the man evidenced shock beyond his injuries. John recognized a name, ‘Jean Lessart,’ and he realized Sherlock was telling this man that his identity was known to them. Then John recognized his contorted face as one of the men on the security tape. Men who had received the Dies Irae coin from Ayala.

He gently searched, and found the coin in his pocket. He showed it to Sherlock.

Sherlock was speaking more gently now, and the man was weeping. He said a few words, then lapsed into unconsciousness.

"What did he tell you?" John asked.

"There are two more coming, just as we thought. They are taking a package on the TGV tomorrow. One of them is bringing the package now."

"How – What’s in the package?"

Sherlock shook his head. "He said he was already a dead man, anyway. A bomb, likely. He’s a suicide bomber."

"We have to warn them, Sherlock."

"We will. But quiet now – the others are coming."

John quickly tore off the man’s shirt to try and do something more to stanch his bleeding.

What he saw on the man’s bare flesh made his heart stop, then jackhammer as he shouted for Sherlock to get back. "All they way back, Sherlock, now!"

"John –" Sherlock protested.

"He’s got . . . burns, Sherlock. Radiation burns."

They stared at the unconscious man in horror.

"Now we know what’s in the package," Sherlock whispered.

* * *

"John — you touched him — you touched his body, you’ve got his blood on you," Sherlock said hoarsely. His blood ran sluggish and cold through his veins and dread cascaded over him as he realized that John might be contaminated. He didn’t know the nature of the man’s exposure, what he might have hidden about his person.

They stood frozen across the room from one another, eyes wide. "John, John," he stammered, as though the word, the name, could just stop this from happening. His sole impulse was to embrace John with all his strength. Because whatever fate had in store for John Watson, it was his to share.

John was backing away, seeing the manic intent in Sherlock’s eyes.

"Keep back, Sherlock. Stop. You have to think now. What’s done is done. Think."

Pale and trembling, Sherlock nodded, once, and tried to organize the cacophony of his thoughts, rein them in, impose order. His immediate concern was the realization that Mycroft and Lestrade had no way of knowing what had just happened, and might very well intercept the two other conspirators. Who might also be contaminated. And carrying a very deadly package.

He thought Mycroft had run to the top of the hill, where he surmised Lestrade was hidden with the sniper rifle. He cursed. There was no way to contact Mycroft by mobile. He decided to risk signaling with his flashlight.

He flashed out a terse message in Morse code with his flashlight: "Radioactive. Stay away. S." God knew if Mycroft saw it.

* * *

"John, I have to restore the power. I have to signal for the other two. They are coming."

"Just stay far from him, do you hear? And from me. Don’t dare get anywhere near," John said. Sherlock hesitated, then went out. He was back in less than a minute, flashed the lights twice, then left them on.

"How do you know that he was telling the truth about the signal?"

"I told him I knew where his mother and his daughter live." Sherlock said tersely. John could recall a time this might have horrified him.

Now, with the images of the man’s radiation burns seared into his retinas, the man’s blood on his hands, his concept of horror was very different.

* * *

"When they come through that door," John said, "try not to touch them more than you have to. No shooting." Sherlock would not meet his eyes and John realized he was weighing the risks and coming to the obvious conclusions.

Now they heard quiet footsteps crunching the gravel outside the front door.

They hid on either side of the front door. As two men entered, they stopped them with guns aimed between their eyes, John standing as far away as possible. Sherlock took away the small square case from the smaller of the two men. He was unsurprised to find it was incredibly heavy for its size. The smaller man had a backpack too. Sherlock moved both items to the corner of the room.

Sherlock swiftly bound the men to chairs while John training his gun on them. Sherlock gestured to their fallen comrade bleeding out on the floor, letting them see their fate. The slighter man sobbed and shook.

"Whatever you do, Sherlock," John hissed as he saw Sherlock eyeing the case intently, "Do. Not. Open. That. Case."

Sherlock nodded. He flashed another coded message to Mycroft to let him know they had the men safely. Sherlock then commenced questioning the men in French, then Spanish, until the slighter man, trembling and sobbing, burst out, "I speak English."

The other man shouted in a strange tongue at him, and the man cowered, but said, "Don’t kill me. I’m their prisoner. I am Dr. Julio Echavarri. I was forced to work with them. Please believe me."

"That one’s speaking Euskara," Sherlock said to John. "He’s ETA. Where are you planing to plant the radioactive material? That’s what’s in the case, yes? Where did you get it? Talk now, talk fast or you’ll end up like your friend," Sherlock waved his gun at the dying man.

"I’m a scientist, a researcher. I was – working in Malaysia, in Jakarta– they have a new nuclear program: power plants, not bombs, not weapons. I worked for OECD - Spain’s Nuclear Energy Agency - for ten years until I was recruited by Malaysia. Weapons are not my field, you have to believe that," he said, looking back and forth between John and Sherlock with his eyes bulging frantically.

"Go on," John said over the shouts of the other man, who was clearly threatening him with extreme punishment for talking. He wanted to gag him, but didn’t want to touch him. Sherlock said something brutal in Spanish, and he stopped, glowering.

* * *

Dr. Echavarri had been approached by a shadowy local crime lord in Jakarata, Iskander Hasan. Hasan offered him an exorbitant sum of money, enough to live in wealth and comfort in Malaysia the rest of his life, in exchange for a simple business accommodation.

The new nuclear power plant generated radioactive waste, naturally. Waste that required disposal according to international protocols – and Dr. Echavarri was to do a very simple thing.

Award the contract to Hasan’s nominee.

Or, Echavarri and his family would be eliminated. Someone more cooperative could always be found.

Echavarri, a foreigner, would find that local authorities, including those in charge of the fledgling Nuclear Power Agency, would be unreceptive, to say the least, to any complaints about Hasan.

"That was how it started. I thought at first it was just, you know – rigged bidding for the contract. It’s Jakarata, it’s how things work. I wasn’t happy, but – what could I do? I did ask questions; but everyone seemed to know Hasan. It was clear what I was expected to do."

"Well," Sherlock said frostily. "It turned out to be more than that. They asked you to weaponize the radioactive waste."

Echavarri nodded miserably. "They started – telling me – I had to help them . . . concentrate the material, do you understand?"

"They want to build a nuclear weapon," John said. "Is that what’s in the case? Parts for a bomb?"

Echavarri shook his head. "Not a bomb." He didn’t want to say more. "It’s already too late."

"Your friend there has radiation burns. How many of them have possession of radioactive material? What are they going to do?"

Echavarri said sadly, "They wouldn’t listen to me. They . . . are going to spread radioactive contamination. To expose the greatest number of people. It is highly communicable, you know. Radioactive isotopes are easily spread. They made dummy canisters – like oxygen, for emphysema. To spray radioactive aerosol in trains, train stations. Airports."

"How will they get the canisters through security – wait, they have confederates in security, of course?"

"They don’t tell me those kinds of things."

"That case is not an oxygen canister," John said. "What is in the case?"

"The canisters were completed nearly a month ago. They are already gone."

"What is in that case," Sherlock said, cocking his pistol, letting Echavarri hear the click.

The other man was screaming abuse and threats now, and John was yelling at him to shut up, brandishing his pistol at the man’s face. Through his screams of rage, Sherlock heard Echavarri’s brutal answer.

"It’s a demon core."

* * *

"In August 1945, researchers at Los Alamos – the Manhattan Project – were performing experiments on a plutonium core. Surrounding it with tungsten carbide bricks to create a neutron reflector. A physicist dropped the final brick. The system became supercritical. He was able to stop the reaction by knocking down the bricks, but he received a fatal radiation dose.

"A year later another Los Alamos physicist was experimenting on the same plutonium core, and was handling two beryllium half-spheres that were required to be kept separated. He stupidly used a common screwdriver to separate the beryllium, and it slipped, causing a chain reaction. He, too, died of a fatal radiation dose.

This plutonium core was called the "demon core." The same demon core was used to build the ABLE test weapon detonated at Bikini Atoll in 1946."

"So you don’t need millions of dollars, or even a bomb, to cause a criticality accident," Sherlock said. "You just need a core. You gave them that. Now they’re planning to a massive radiation release. Is this the sole demon core?"

Echavarri shook his head. "I heard that a colleague of mine had recently disappeared, the explanations did not seem to me . . . believable. If they have him, they might have access to more . . . material."

"Another demon core, you mean."

"He was working in Russia. For Rostekhnadzor."

"The Russian Nuclear Regulatory Authority."

"Yes. There, these materials are not so hard to obtain, you understand? Black market. Even Rostekhnadzor deals with the black market."

"So you’re saying they could have what, more than one? How many do you think there are?"

Echavarri cowered. "I have no idea."

* * *

Lestrade was sick with the suspense of waiting alone at the top of the hill. The adrenaline from firing his first shot from the sniper rifle was gone now. He heard the second shot, had seen the man fall, seen Mycroft come back out of the house and make his way back.

And to his astonishment, looking through the scope to be sure, he saw Sherlock Holmes emerge from the house and drag the body inside.

Mycroft was here now. "Are you all right," he said urgently.

Lestrade nodded. "He was coming at the house. He had a gun. I knew you couldn’t see him. I tried not to kill him – was that John? That fired the second shot?" Mycroft explained Sherlock and John’s appearance, their mission for MI6. Lestrade couldn’t be astonished by anything, anymore.

The watched as the lights flashed twice from the house, then were turned on, illuminating the darkness with a warm yellow circle that looked deceptively safe, even cozy.

"That must be the safe signal," Mycroft said.

"What do we do now?" Lestrade bent to shift the weight of his cast.

Mycroft was about to speak when he saw a flash of lights from the house. "Radioactive. Stay away. S."

"What is that? Is that Sherlock? What does it mean?" Lestrade asked. Mycroft was silent. He turned away to compose himself. "Greg," he said slowly. "I want you to drive the car back to the cottage now."

"I’m not leaving you."

Mycroft spun and grabbed him by the shoulders, hard. "It’s enough now, Greg. You’ve done enough." Visions from his schoolboy days appeared unbidden, educational films about nuclear war, nuclear accidents: Bikini Atoll. Hiroshima. Nagasaki. Chernobyl.

They fell silent, watching as two figures now cautiously approached the farmhouse. "Don’t shoot, let them go in," Mycroft whispered.

The men opened the front door, entered, and they saw the shadows of struggle. Another brief flash from Sherlock told Mycroft that the two were secured.

 

"Greg – take this mobile. I want you to call that Spanish police captain, the one in Bilbao – from your talk on riot control. And call Scotland Yard. Tell them – tell them we have a nuclear threat. It has to be you, it can’t be me. I’m on the rogue list now. Tell them it’s radioactive material, in the hands of ETA. We need a containment team here in Willencourt immediately. If they want to know how you know, tell them . . .tell them you got a tip from a local."

Lestrade took this more calmly than Mycroft had expected. "Do you think Scotland Yard doesn’t train us up on terrorist threats, Mycroft? I’m on Black Team. I understand, believe me. And one thing I know is that MI6 will get wind of this the minute it hits the wires. If you have a mole, they’ll just abort, go to plan B."

"We don’t have a choice. All Souls’ Day is the day after tomorrow. We have to act on the known data. With those men down there contained, we can possibly find out more. Now, go."

Lestrade was dialing on the mobile. He wasn’t moving. Mycroft tried to haul him to his feet but Lestrade cried out at the pain in his broken leg and Mycroft reflexively released him.

"I’m not going. Quiet now."

"Greg, you don’t know . . . It could be a bomb."

Lestrade nodded. "So this could be it. Finished. The end. _La fin._ D’you think I’d leave you, if it is? Do you?"

* * *

"My final orders were to deliver this case to –" Echavarri nodded at the fallen man, who now appeared quite dead.

John looked at his corpse impassively. His death by gunshot was infinitely easier than death by radiation poisoning.

"Tomorrow, they were taking the case onto the TGV train, Calais to London. And the canisters are already being moved, on their way to train stations, airports."

Sherlock was pacing. "The TGV train? Blow up the Chunnel? No, no, it doesn’t make sense. It is too random. Dies Irae. The Day of Wrath. The inspiration had to be Marcus Brutus’ assassination of Julius Caesar. This plan is just – random acts of terror. There is no political target . . .there is something missing here. Did they ever tell you about a specific target?"

"No, nothing. I wasn’t part of that. I’m just a scientist."

Sherlock and John looked at him with revulsion.

"They would have killed me, I tell you."

"That was a choice you had," John said with cold fury. "You’re a terrorist now."

　

　

To be continued . . .


	10. "Those Down In Hades."

**  
_"The Rest I Will Tell To Those Down In Hades."_   
**   
_“. . . What we protect here like sleepless watchmen,  
Those wounds and secrets locked inside us,  
Day after day with overbearing anxiety--  
We will tell all, freely and clearly, there.”  
"Add this," said the sophist half smiling,  
"if they speak of such things down there.  
And if they care about them, any more."_

Cavafy, tr.Seamus Heaney

 

“They don’t really believe it. But they called the local coppers,” Lestrade said of his call to the Spanish police. “I don’t blame them. We get a dozen calls a week, claiming some kind of terrorist threat. Nearly always come to naught.”

“And the Yard? You spoke to Yount?” Mycroft asked. Yount was Lestrade’s Superintendent.

“Somebody I didn’t know came on, wouldn’t put me through. Didn’t smell right. I rang off.”

“They’ve been thorough, then. God knows what lies they have spread. You’re a black sheep now, too.”

Lestrade’s blood began to boil, but he stopped himself. This was bigger than him, bigger than — anything. If they got out of this, well, he would get to the bottom of it: but now, the Yard seemed like a distant dream, trivial even.

“Mycroft – they’ll be arrested - John, Sherlock, all of them – quarantined – God – you don’t think – Mycroft, are they safe? Are Sherlock and John safe?”

* * *  
Sherlock backed away, murmuring into his mobile while aiming his pistol at Echavarri. John couldn’t hear anything. At length Sherlock stepped forward, menacing.

“You’re supposed to contact someone, aren’t you, to let them know you delivered the case safely.” Echavarri hung his head. “Aren’t you.” Sherlock accused, brandishing the gun. Echavarri nodded, terrified.

“Make the call,” John said.

“I know the number, but not the code – he –“ Echavarri nodded at the dead man, “he has the code.”

Sherlock and John stared at each other in dismay.

“What happens if you don’t make the call?”

“They will be here soon.”

“How soon?”

“Fifteen minutes. Maybe less, now.”

John was already moving. “I’ll search him. I already touched him. What’s done is done. He might have the code hidden on him, written on something.” His voice sounded hopeless and distant and this make Sherlock feel very cold and lost.

“Stop, John. Don’t touch him, please, don’t. He won’t have written it down, and anyway . . .we want them to know we have the case. We want them to know that we’re on to them. It’s time for them to come to us.” He held out his mobile. “Tell me the number you were to call.”

Echavarri told him.

After a moment, Sherlock spoke into the mobile. “Echavarri’s with me. I don’t have the code. But I have your case.” He waited, but clearly whoever was there wasn’t willing to speak. Sherlock rang off.

“Sherlock, Jesus, this is not a game. Call the French police, call Interpol, call – whoever you call for something like this. This is bigger than us, Sherlock. Do it, do it now.”

“I already have,” Sherlock said quietly. “A certain number, a clandestine agency . . . I promise you, they will come. You need treatment. All we have to do is keep the case safe until they get here. Do you feel nauseous, John? Headache? Fever?” His eyes were wide, glassy. John thought he had never seen Sherlock genuinely afraid until this moment.

John shook his head. “No. Not yet. I’ll be all right, Sherlock.”

“A high dose will cause vomiting in less than ten minutes. If you don’t feel nauseous for more than an hour, it is a – survivable dose. They’ll be here soon, John.”

“Why did you tell them we have the case, Sherlock?”

“Because I’m betting that Aguirre himself might just come for that case.”

* * *

Mycroft’s face was like stone. “If they’ve been – contaminated – neither you nor I can help them now. They won’t be free to go even if they weren’t. We have far worse things to consider.”

“Worse than John and Sherlock possibly – God, I can’t bear it!”

A thousand recollections of Sherlock, John, his deep respect and friendship for both, even his doomed love for John, all overwhelmed him, a loss unbearable. Unthinkable. “We can’t just leave them alone down there, I tell you – we can go down now, bring them out, Mycroft –“

“Greg, no, you can’t. We must bear it. We must. And we can’t help them, not with this. They would agree: Now, our most urgent concern is whoever will be sent to recover that case. Whoever is coming will be more than a match for the French police, I assure you."

"Well, you're forgetting something. There's us."

Mycroft's smile was bitter. "I hadn't forgotten. There's us."

* * *

They waited silently, watching the windows below for signs of movement, struggle, straining for sounds of gunfire. There was nothing but the deep silence of the French countryside.

“How long do we wait?”

“Hmm. . .Gallic efficiency. They’ll come very soon now.”

Mycroft realized that the horrific deadliness of the nuclear threat meant that it was more vital than ever before that he discover the identity of the MI6 traitor.

A traitor striving to seal the success of the Day of Wrath, at this very moment – while they strove blindly against it.

As he ceaselessly processed the known facts, one in particular demanded his attention. Lestrade had said that he was certain – the man who tried to kill him in the alley in St. Jean-de-Luz was one of the men Mycroft himself had set for Lestrade’s protection at his own house in St. John’s Wood.

Protection Mycroft had personally ordered when, unexpectedly, he was ordered to leave London in immediate pursuit of the terrorist, Aguirre.

Protection that Mycroft had ordered for one reason: He wanted Lestrade to stay in his own highly secure home, safe from reprisals by Russian gangsters seeking revenge for Lestrade’s interference in Liverpool.

Mycroft had shown Lestrade photographs of the agents he had assigned to the protection detail. But Lestrade recognized none of them but Agent 009, Robert Roussel, who had died in his arms, delivering the Dies Irae coin to Lestrade as his last act.

And yet, Lestrade was certain that he had seen his assailant outside of Mycroft’s house.

Mycroft realized his mistake. Someone had replaced one of his agents without his knowledge.

It was this man who Lestrade had shot in that alley, a man who had somehow tracked them to France.

"Describe again the man in the alley, in St. Jean-de-Luz. The man you shot,” Mycroft said urgently.

Lestrade shook his head. "It was dark, Mycroft- "

"Right or left handed?"

"Left," Lestrade said instantly.

"Hair?"

"Dark, probably. . . or a cap; and not tall, smallish frame, I'd say."

"Eyes?"

Lestrade concentrated. They had fought; he had kept his eyes on the knife; but in the final moment, their eyes had met. As though he knew the bullet was coming. And in that instant, Lestrade had seen them. Killer’s eyes.

“Very blue. Startling color . . .could have been contact lenses, a disguise.”

Mycroft was closing his eyes now, sifting through his orderly photographic memory. The eyes, the startling blue eyes, left-handed . . .surely it couldn’t be true?

* * *  
“Look at this, Greg, carefully.” Mycroft showed Lestrade a photograph on his mobile. A slightly-built, dark-haired man with piercing electric-blue eyes.

Greg looked, and remembered the sudden transformation in those eyes to wide, almost innocent astonishment as he fell to the ground.

“Mycroft. This is the man. Who is he?”

Mycroft bowed his head to conceal the fact that he was utterly astounded.

* * *

Since finding Lestrade’s photograph, stained with blood, under Ayala’s body, Mycroft had ceaselessly been processing, sifting, considering, rejecting amongst possible candidates: Who in MI6 was a mole, a traitor; in league with the Day of Wrath terrorists, or worse, their mastermind?  
The man in the photograph, the man Lestrade had shot, was a sometime agent going by the name “Hawke.” Pretentious.

“Hawke” was a hired gun. He had been used, to Mycroft’s knowledge, just once by MI5: very briefly, and that more than five years ago. Under the auspices of Mycroft’s closest colleague.

A colleague considered, in some circles, as Mycroft’s equal (which Mycroft himself found extraordinarily insulting):

Sammy Singh.

Although Hawke was a hired gun, and therefore could be working for anyone at any time, Mycroft could not believe that this was coincidence. No, this had to be Singh’s hand at work.

Singh was the traitor.

* * *

Sammy Singh was, of course, a British citizen. Mycroft summoned forth his recall of the man’s file.

Singh’s family had immigrated to England after the British protectorates of Malaysia had been decimated in World War II.

Sammy Singh, among his other multitudinous duties, was a sometime liaison between MI6 and SO14.

SO14 is the Metropolitan Police’s Royalty Protection command, established to provide personal security to the Royal Family.

* * *

Singh’s family, refugees from . . . Borneo, specifically, Mycroft now recalled. And although his father had been a member of a once-prominent family connected with the British protectorate, his mother had been Muslim.

Borneo. Where the Day of Wrath terrorists had flaunted a gruesome beheading as a foretaste of actions still to come.

Borneo. Where Abu Sayyaf, the “Sword of God” Islamic separatist movement, plied their trade: kidnaping of tourists, beheadings, ransom demands.

Among Abu Sayyaf’s numerous other ambitious plots had been a foiled assassination attempt on the Pope.

* * *

Mycroft considered the bare facts:

Abu Sayyaf’s stated goal: the establishment of an independent Muslim state within the Philippines.

The paramilitary splinter groups – disaffected by the recent cease-fires in Northern Ireland.

ETA – seeking a separate state for the Basque people.

He considered other prominent separatist terrorist groups: the Chechen Islamic International Peacekeeping Brigade, with known Al Qaeda ties; the defeated Tamil Tigers of Sri Lanka, known to be attempting to reform in exile.

Sammy Singh. Who had ties leading back to Malaysia, to Borneo; and who had very intimate knowledge of, and access to, the entire security scheme for the protection of the Royal Family.

A series of coins, depicting an image very like that of Brutus, the assassin of Julius Caesar.

Instead of “EID MAR,” or The Ides of March, the date of Caesar’s assassination in the Senate, someone had taken the trouble to replicate this ancient coin with the new inscription, DIES IRAE. The Day of Wrath.

Sammy Singh’s hired gun, Hawke, had been sent to kill Lestrade, after Lestrade was presumably discovered as the last person to speak to Agent Robert Roussel, holding the DIES IRAE coin in his hand when he died.

Sherlock had revealed that three men who received DIES IRAE coins from Ayala were here, tonight.

The Day of Wrath was to be All Souls’ Day.

The day of prayer for the souls of the dead.

And on that day, deadly action would be taken, action undoubtedly calculated to bring its intended targets to their knees. All this Mycroft had pieced together, fact upon fact, until the only missing pieces were the only ones that mattered: who – or what – were the targets? And what means of destruction?

He considered Sherlock’s warning. “Radioactive.”

Mycroft considered, then, the 2006 assassination of Russian dissident and former KGB/FSB agent Alexander Litvinenko in London, by polonium-210 radiation poisoning. Just last month, in October 2011, the Coroner of St. Pancras had announced a new public inquest into this officially unsolved murder.

It had taken Litvinenko three agonizing weeks to die. Presciently, Litvinenko had once said, “It was considered in our service that poison is an easier weapon than a pistol.” His death by radiation poisoning was said to be “sadistically designed to trigger a slow, torturous and spectacular demise.”

Marcus Brutus and the conspirators dispatched Julius Caesar with knives.

The Day of Wrath terrorists intended to dispatch the modern Caesars with a weapon more painful by far than the knife.

* * *

“You know him, who was he?” Lestrade asked of the blue-eyed man in the photograph.

“An independent contractor of sorts, once under my colleague Sammy Singh. Singh has to be our traitor. He’s a coordinator for SO14, Greg. You understand what that means.”

Lestrade processed this. “That man down there came in hot – radioactive. It’s got to be big, then. If Singh’s our man, and he has access to the royals – it has to be an assassination plot. But how would they bloody get that stuff close to any of them? Impossible.”

“Nothing is impossible, I’m afraid. You’ve heard of the incident of the visitor to the Queen’s bedchamber, of course? Just last week, a man was arrested for shooting at a window at the White House. Trying to kill the President. When I started after Aguirre, he had been seen at Ascot. Ascot is very close to Windsor. The Royal Family attend events at Ascot frequently. There is a National Hunt race, the Coral Ascot – in a week. Mycroft consulted his mobile.

“The Queen is in residence at Windsor until she and the family leave for Sandringham in three weeks’ time. In the meantime, the young Princes, the Duchess of Cambridge, and other of the younger royals, are scheduled to attend the Coral Ascot.”

* * *

Sherlock and John froze as a small sound came from the rear of the farm house. In the instant of hesitation, the bound man hurled his chair to the floor, shouting out. And several things happened at once.

John could see in the shadows of the dark hall that figures were, inexplicably, rushing towards them, coming literally out of nowhere.

Sherlock was shooting. One of the figures went down.

Two more jumped into the room over his body, shooting.

Echavarri’s head exploded in pink mist.

Sherlock hit the floor, blood gushing, pumping from his shoulder, and rolled behind a long sofa.

John dove and rolled toward the deadly case. He cradled it with his body and put his shaking hands around it.

He held his gun to the lock.

“Stop, or I’ll shoot it open!” He screamed over the gunfire.

* * *

Everything became very still in the room. Everyone stared at John’s hands, shaking, holding the case.

“You don’t want a dose of your own, then.” John deadpanned.

“You’ll die too, and so will your friend Sherlock Holmes, if you open that,” said one of the men. His English was heavily accented. He was not young; strongly built, with strong dark features that John now could recognize as typically Basque. Sherlock had shown him a photograph from Mycroft’s files.

Aguirre.

“Yes. I’m already poisoned. So odds are – I’m dead already. We’re in the countryside. I didn’t see another farm or house for miles around.

“So you see, whatever happens when I open this case, I’d rather it happened here than wherever you fucking bastards were planning on taking it.”

* * *

“You’re wrong, Doctor Watson. If you open that case, the explosion will destroy everything within twenty-five kilometers. More than a hundred thousand people. Are you willing to do that much, Doctor Watson?”

“I’d have thought that would please you,” John said. “If that’s true, why would you want to stop me? The case – It’s not a bomb. You’re bluffing.”

Aguirre turned his gun on the sofa where Sherlock was hidden. “Put your gun down, Doctor Watson, or I’ll kill Holmes there. I can see his shadow.” John saw that it was true.

He couldn’t risk looking at Sherlock; couldn’t risk moving his gun. He thought he could sense Sherlock about to try to move, when all the lights went out.

* * *

John could see nothing, but heard breaking glass; the thunk of a bullet fired through a silencer; grunting, scuffling and sharp cries from blows. Finally, a crunching thump.

And the lights came back on.

The first thing John saw was Mycroft gently bending over him, prying the case from his trembling grip and setting it gingerly on the ground.

Sherlock was lying in an expanding pool of blood. His blood mingled with the blood from Echavarri’s corpse, virtually decapitated by a large caliber gunshot to the head.

The two intruders were bound on the floor, bruised and bleeding, but alive.

“He’s Aguirre,” John said. “Mycroft – they . . came out of nowhere.”

“Yes,” Mycroft said. “Keep your gun on them, John. I must help Sherlock.”

John watched, agonized, as Mycroft examined Sherlock’s wound and bound it up with a strip from his own shirt, tying it off with his belt. John didn’t think he could have done much better under the circumstances and resisted going to him. Until he knew he was clean and clear, he shouldn’t touch Sherlock, or anyone.

Sherlock’s face was very white. John’s entire world narrowed to the mesmerizing sight of his chest rise and falling, very faint.

* * *

Through the shattered window John saw flashing lights, a siren. It seemed an hallucination. Something in him had truly believed they would never leave this farmhouse alive.

Then there was a great confusion as the door burst open, and officers wearing black Demron full body suits and masks stormed in. A figure in a full bomb suit crept towards the case.

By the time John looked up again, Mycroft and Aguirre were gone.

He kept his mouth shut.

* * *

John and Sherlock were swiftly removed to a temporary enclosure on the farm property. The two (known) captives were nowhere to be seen; nor were the corpses. John wondered if they would ever be seen again. He wondered if he and Sherlock would ever be seen again. He understood the score.

John started answering questions posed first in French, then English, and submitted to the removal of all of his clothing and a strong blast in a portable shower enclosure outside. He was scanned repeatedly.

He heard the telltale chatter of the meter. They didn’t have to tell him what that meant.

As Sherlock was borne away, he flashed back to the first day he met Sherlock Holmes:  
 _"If you were dying, if you were murdered, in the very last seconds, what would you say?"_ Sherlock demanded: arrogant, hectic, in a frenzy to solve the puzzle.

 _"Please God, let me live."_ John replied. Simply. Calmly.

 _"Use your imagination,"_ Sherlock spat back derisively.

_“I don't have to.”_

Sherlock blinked, perhaps; for less than an instant did Sherlock stop to absorb this, before his brain ricocheted back to the alluring mystery of the pink phone.

Months later, when everything was different, Sherlock asked him about that day, and John told him.

“Please God, let him live,” John whispered now.

They began his treatment.

* * *

Mycroft dragged Aguirre down the tunnel. While he dragged, he told Aguirre a story.

“The worst mining accident in Europe happened, right here. The Courrieres mine disaster. Over a thousand men died in these very coal mines. There were innumerable pitheads, you see, connecting to galleries on many different levels. No one could interpret the maps of the mine, they were so complex. There were at least a hundred kilometers of tunnels in that mine alone. These old mines are everywhere in the Pas de Calais. When you and your – confederate appeared, I knew you could only have gotten in by means of a tunnel. It had to be a disused mine shaft.”

Aguirre grimaced as well as he was able through his gag.

They were indeed in an abandoned mine shaft, leading down. Mycroft dragged Aguirre along, a flashlight tucked under his arm.

Eventually Mycroft deemed that they were well out of earshot of anyone above.

“I will leave you down here, Aguirre. Tie you up and gag you, and bury you under the rubble, down here in the dark. No one will know where you are. No one will ever find you. An ignominius end. I could even make you help me do it. You are familiar, perhaps, with Poe? I have always admired “A Cask of Amontillado.” No sherry here, sadly.”

Mycroft propped Aguirre against a rocky wall and stood against the opposite wall.

“Of course, if you told me what I want to know, I could be. . . merciful. I am not without connections. Your connection is with Sammy Singh, I believe. I assure you that my reach is higher. And while you are considering that, my dear fellow, I believe I shall search you.”

* * *

Mycroft was rewarded with a mobile, a folded map, and a DIES IRAE coin through which a small hole had been drilled, and which Aguirre wore on a chain about his neck.

“Charming souvenir of a failed escapade,” Mycroft sneered.

“Not failed,” Aguirre gasped through his gag. Mycroft pulled it down.

“Don’t scream.”

“We didn’t fail,” Aguirre repeated. His grin was reptilian in the gloom.

“I’ll leave you now, then. To contemplate your success,” Mycroft said. He began piling stones over Aguirre’s feet.

“I won’t tell you anything,” Aguirre spat.

“I find that men such as yourself usually wish to ensure that the world knows of their brilliance. How will the world know, if I leave you here?”

“They’ll know what I want them to know. The rest – I’ll tell it in hell. I’ll see you there, soon enough. Maybe I’ll tell you then.”

Mycroft contemplated Aguirre. He saw that he was not intending to talk. He had a plan for that.

Mycroft began piling the stones higher. There were a great many of them. He was in a hurry, but he went as slowly as he dared.

He left a very small opening for Aguirre’s face.

“Down in hell! How quaint,” Mycroft said, standing over the freshly made barrow. “Have you ever stopped to consider – what if nobody down there cares?”

He made his way back, quietly, up the passage.

And switched off the flashlight.

* * *

To be continued . . .


	11. The Ethics of Terror

_"The King! I thought he was philosopher enough to allow that there was no murder in politics. In politics, my dear fellow, you know, as well as I do, there are no men, but ideas – no feelings, but interests; in politics, we do not kill a man, we only remove an obstacle, that is all."_

Alexandre Dumas, The Count of Monte Cristo.

 

_Love like a knife in my back  
has cut me down  
And I'm bleeding --  
and if you go  
angels will rush to defend me_

_Love like a sentence of death  
left me stunned  
And I'm reeling  
and if you go  
furious angels  
will bring you back to me_

Lyrics "Furious Angels" all rights reserved Rob Dougan.

 

Lestrade watched, concealed, as the little farmhouse below seethed like an angry anthill as minions of some French agency, grim and secretive, arrived in anonymous vans and deployed white-suited men who searched, examined, tested.

He looked through the sniper scope in helpless despair as John and Sherlock, several bound captives, and finally, two bodies covered in plastic shrouds were speedily removed into vans and taken away.

He couldn’t tell if any of the bodies was Mycroft’s.

He had to believe that somehow, Mycroft was still down there: concealed, maybe, despite the searches of the anonymous team.

He tried very hard not to think of the alternative.

Lestrade switched on his cop mentality, practical and resourceful, and began formulating schemes by which he might get past the guards below: pretending to be a stranded motorist, gaining their sympathy with his broken leg. Being honest: identifying himself as a Scotland Yard detective, say he had been sent because of Sherlock and John, try and bluff his way inside. Trying to hike down, steal into the farmhouse without the guards seeing. Even charging down with his gun, trying to storm the farmhouse singlehandedly, despite his leg.

And being a cop, and a very good one, he knew without doubt that each of these options were doomed to failure: he would only get himself shot, arrested, or worse. And he was perfectly willing to risk these outcomes for Mycroft - but now, there was something more important at stake even than Mycroft’s fate.

He stared at the farmhouse for a bit longer, willing Mycroft to appear. A region in his chest that figured was his heart disintegrated into painful little fragments as the minutes passed, and still Mycroft did not come.

So far as he knew, he was the only living person privy to Mycroft’s electrifying discovery: that Sanjay "Sammy" Singh, a senior MI5 operative with control over security for the Royal Family, was a traitor in league with the Day of Wrath terrorists. If Mycroft had been in any way – delayed, hindered, he decided to frame the problem – Lestrade knew he had to get word to people who could stop him.

All Souls’ Day was near.

* * *

As his anxiety and doubt peaked, a shadow loomed over Lestrade. His hand flew to his gun, but Mycroft’s hand stayed him, finger to his lips.

"Mycroft – God, I was afraid – Sherlock, John – " Lestrade struggled to get to his feet.

"Sherlock and John have by now been flown to a hospital near Cherbourg. State of the art treatment for radiation exposure, I assure you. The La Hauge nuclear compound is near Cherbourg. If I had any doubt about the care there, I had other . . . options. I can't do more for them now. I simply can’t afford to lose time remaining here." Mycroft said. "I have to go to Calais."

"Calais? Now? They’ve blockaded the road. Wait – what do you mean, ‘I’? ‘We,’ right?"

Mycroft simply dragged him up and supported him a little way down the hill. They stopped at a cleft in the hillside that led to the low opening of a dark tunnel. Lestrade now saw that Mycroft’s hands and arms were covered with blackish dust, his shirt was torn and bloodied. Lestrade wanted to ask about the blood, the black dust, but Mycroft held up his hand.

"Old coal mines." He seemed disinclined to elaborate.

Lestrade’s anger rose, hot and swift, as he saw that Mycroft was choosing this particular moment to be pompously secretive. A few minutes ago he had been afraid Mycroft was dead. Sherlock and John were at this very moment in grave danger. His leg was torturing him and he was utterly drained.

"Radiation exposure. . . Mycroft, if you think you’re going to play at secrets with me, after everything, after all this – " He realized he was wanted to shout at Mycroft, and that it felt good, for some reason, to have something, someone, to focus his frustration upon. But he kept his voice low; there were guards below whose attention they must not draw. "Bloody hell – I want to know what you were doing all that time, down there, while I was stuck up here – wondering — I thought –" his voice cracked.

Mycroft looked at him steadily. Impassively. Concealing with an effort almost beyond his strength the fact that he knew that this might be the last moment that Lestrade looked at him, felt for him, as he had done.

In a moment, everything would change. He was used to making sacrifices for The Work. He understood why this had to be.

This time, it was probably going to cost him everything.

"It’s Aguirre. He’s buried. Down in the mine. Under stones." Seeing Lestrade’s puzzlement, Mycroft brutally clarified:

"I did it."

* * *

Lestrade tried to imagine this, looking at Mycroft’s soot-covered hands. Those hands, hands that had held him, touched him . . . piling up stones. Mycroft met his gaze sternly, then softened slightly to a nearly contemptuous brand of pity.

Lestrade suppressed a shiver. He had been foolish, indeed, not to know just this: that it was this ruthlessness, this cold-bloodedness, that truly lay beneath the layers of Mycroft's reserve. He had been naive, and worse, to believe that touching Mycroft, allowing himself to be touched, opening himself to this man, had taught him everything he needed to know about Mycroft Holmes. "You did that-- " he whispered.

Lestrade stopped as he thought he heard anguished shrieking, very faint, almost unaudible, floating up from the tunnel.

"Just enough to keep him secure; not enough, I shouldn’t think, to actually kill him. Not for some while yet, at any rate. Soon, he’ll tell you anything." Mycroft observed shortly, as though discussing nothing more important than the potential doneness of a cake. "Perhaps another hour." Mycroft observed Lestrade’s agitation and worse, disillusionment, while he scrupulously held in every possible sign that the sight seared him like acid.

"Mycroft, . . . he sounds like he’s in pain, he sounds like . . . Mycroft. It's murder to leave him down there. Buried alive. Why did you do it?" Lestrade realized he had never asked Mycroft such a direct question, and he was afraid to hear his answer.

"There is no 'murder' such a case, Greg. Merely. . .expediency. He's of no use to us at all if he doesn't talk, and talk quickly. I am merely inducing a severe claustrophobic panic. I am probably the only person other than Aguirre himself privy to a most useful fact: he is a profound claustrophobic."

The shrieks were getting fainter.

"That’s torture, then, Mycroft. No matter your reasons."

Mycroft actually laughed, sardonically. "Ah! The ethics of terror! Jus ad bellum – just cause for war; Jus in bellum - just conduct in war. Certainly fighting terrorists is a worthy cause? Your quarrel is with my means, I see. Yes. We don’t have the leisure, I’m afraid, to debate that. In an hour, possibly less, Aguirre will be ready to talk. During that hour he will suffer cruelly. And then he’ll tell you anything you want to know. And what you want to know is where they are sending the canisters. Every target, every location. Before it’s too late. When he talks, I want you to call me at this number. Without fail."

"You want me to – interrogate him? While he’s – he’s buried? Under rock?". Lestrade made no effort to hide his deep horror.

Mycroft gazed at him stonily. It was falling out just as Mycroft knew it would. This was a game, the ultimate game, and in this game the winner, perhaps, had to lose the most. "You are a good man, Greg. You believe I am doing evil here. I can see you even believe that I am -- well. What I believe, to put it simply, is that our cause is just. And I believe that if Britain is if not wholly good, it my duty to serve her to my utmost, and that service has often required of me the performance of acts which are – not good.

"If you go carefully, Aguirre is not far inside, it is smooth and flat in this end of the tunnel. You may, of course, choose to simply call those guards down there, turn Aguirre over to them. Or, you can wait. And extract what information you can. Many lives may be saved."

Mycroft bent and picked up a small square case, seemingly very heavy, that Lestrade now saw that Mycroft had concealed behind rubble at the mine entrance. In this way he could concentrate on something other than the look of grieved revulsion on Lestrade’s face.

"Why Calais?"

"A rendezvous with a friend. Greg--". One of Mycroft's mottoes was, 'Never complain, never explain.'. The expression on Lestrade's face now was something he would have cut off his own arm rather than ever have had to bear witness to. And so he knew that whatever he told Lestade now, it would make no difference. The damage was done. "I would rather there had been any way. But I am the only person who can do this. Sammy Singh expects this case to be delivered by an ETA operative. Today. In Ascot. And so, I am going to deliver it."

"What’s in that case?"

* * *

"A plutonium sphere with a beryllium shield. I believe they smuggled it from Russia, black market. When manipulated as intended by Aguirre and Sammy Singh, it will superheat and melt. Releasing massive radiation. Persons within close proximity will die within hours, or days of acute radiation poisoning. Others may take months, even years, to die."

Lestrade resisted his mind's impulse to frame this as unreal; a dream. A nightmare. This was happening, it was very, very real, and if it shook him down to his very soul he couldn't afford to let it slow him down. No. He would be like Mycroft, like Sherlock. No place here for his soul. Or his heart. He looked at the innocuous case. "Ascot – the Coral Ascot, the royals – that’s their plan? Jesus, Mycroft, – this is what Sherlock meant by "radioactive"? There was some kind of nuclear containment team here just now, why didn’t you give it to them?"

"Who can I trust? If they should have a corresponding mole in French Intelligence – no, I will take it, and I will capture Singh. And you will give them Aguirre."

"No one will believe I did it alone. Especially in my condition."

"I need them to believe. And they will. You shall be quite the hero. Which you are, you know." Mycroft wouldn’t look at him, instead bending over and deliberately smearing Lestrade with black coal dust.

Mycroft did not fail to understand the symbolism of this simple act.

Seemingly a lifetime ago, Greg has kissed him for the first time. "You'll let me catch up?" he'd said then, finally understanding that Mycroft had feelings for him that went deeper, far deeper, than Mycroft had ever permitted himself to show. Because Mycroft was a man who kept secrets, kept them deep, and sometimes even from himself.

He kissed Greg now, swift and hard, and for what he knew was the last time; and Greg kissed him back, but his lips felt cold and desperate. Mycroft turned away before Greg's anguish.

He took the deadly case and climbed into the car. He was gone before Lestrade could decide what he could possibly have said at such a moment.

"Be careful for me," he whispered finally, and limped down into the tunnel.

* * *  
Mycroft arrived at a checkpoint now. Mycroft spoke in atrocious American-accented French that he was a tourist, here for a hiking holiday, on his way back to England via Calais.

The French officers looked suspiciously at his dissheveled appearance, and finally asked Mycroft to open the boot.

Mycroft said that of course, he would open it.

He pulled the lever and the boot popped open.

The officers rummaged around and came back around, frowning, holding five wooden cases. "You know, sir, that it is illegal to take this much over the border without a license," said one of the officers, frowning magestically.

Mycroft looked chagrined. "Can’t we come to some sort of understanding," he said in a whining American tones. He gestured toward his wallet. The French officer looked highly offended.

"I will pretend I did not see that, monsieur. Perhaps you can bribe an officer in the United States, but this is France."

"I can’t keep just one case?"

The officers consulted. "Spirits for personal consumption are permitted." He handed one case back to Mycroft. "You’re fortunate the Senate overturned the ban in April – or we would have confiscated it all. Now move along, monsieur. We need to clear this area at once."

Mycroft cursed colorfully under his breath, a vulgar American.

He passed the barricade. The crates had effectively distracted the officers from the concealed compartment in the bottom of the boot.

Now, the sleepy village of Willencourt disappeared behind him, and with it the devastation of his hopes. He had a fleeting impulse to pull over and drown his sorrow with one of the bottles generously allowed him by the French police. But now, more than ever, he needed his wits razor-sharp, although he never had wanted to dull them more. No, the absinthe would wait. If he lived through his rendezvous with Singh, he would want every drop of it.

A little later, Mycroft arrived in Calais and drove to the port. A familiar face was waiting at a private dock with a very fast boat here. His cigarette boat, in fact.

"Well done, Yussuf," Mycroft said, and they set a course towards Dover.

* * *

Sherlock regained consciousness with a jolt accompanied by a sickening feeling of disorientation, of knowing he had lost control of his faculties for an indeterminate period of time. He swiftly assessed his bodily damage for the sole purpose of determining the likelihood that he would be permitted to leave this room and go to John: _Gunshot single small caliber bullet shoulder clavicle sheared not shattered clean exit lost blood volume transfusion surgical repair adequate painkillers intravenous pain at bay not likely to be more than a slight distraction when they wore off right shoulder and arm mobility extremely limited headache severe cognition eighty percent._

Sherlock sat up abruptly, taking no notice of the sharp pain in his shoulder. The signs in the room were in French. A few also bore the internationally recognized symbols for radiation.

This triggered images of John, of John and the man with the radiation burns.

_Not now Sherlock first find John then get more specific data it is always a mistake to deduce in advance of facts except that you know perfectly well Sherlock yes you do indeed you are in possession of adequate facts concerning John’s probable exposure –_

He made a concentrated effort to redirect the cacophony of his thoughts and for a moment, succeeded. Because he had to. Because soon, very soon, his razor-sharp thoughts would become paralyzed with the tidal wave of feeling, he knew very well what it was, foreign though they generally were, for him they were always connected with John, everything led back to John, and the wave was coming for him now, coming fast.

He pulled away, turned his back on it, and braced himself. He couldn’t permit himself to think about John now.

That wave would drown him and if he went down, went under, he would be of no use to John.

 _Macro view, then. Forget the wave._ Sherlock remembered being flown to a location perhaps not more than an hour distant from Willencourt. He summoned a mental visual of a map of northern France and determined that it was highly probable he was in a hospital affiliated with the massive La Hague nuclear reprocessing facility, near Cherbourg. He reviewed what he knew about the plant, which formed a small fragment of his large body of data pertaining to nuclear threats:

_La Hague facility – receives spent fuel rods from France’s nuclear reactors – also Japan, Germany, Switzerland, Italy, Spain, Belguim and The Netherlands – La Hague generates plutonium – Plutonium then converted to MOX nuclear fuel for use in light water reactors – Transoceanic container shipments so-called "commercial grade" MOX nuclear fuel present constant threat of theft by terrorists. . ._

Sherlock examined the equipment he was hooked to. As he suspected, it was designed to set off alarms if disturbed. He was able to just reach a cabinet on the far wall where he found, among other routine supplies, a pair of long, sharp metal tweezers.

Moments later, he had prised open a panel and solved the problem of the alarm. He removed his sensors and intravenous lines.

* * *

He tried the door; it was not locked. Here, however, as he had fully expected, a dark-suited man obviously concealing a gun, wearing an earpiece, was sitting in a chair opposite his room, making a visible effort to stay alert. In his present condition, Sherlock thought it possible but on balance unlikely he could take him hand-to-hand. He looked up; there was an air duct above that looked nearly large enough to crawl through; but with his shoulder incapacitated, it was useless to think of escaping the room that way.

He snarled in frustration. He tried to imagine the wave receding. It didn’t work. The wave was coming faster, now.

He climbed back into the bed and reassembled the wires. He began thrashing, howling loudly as if in agony, pulling on tubes, pushing buttons, and was rewarded when at least five alarms were triggered at once. Immediately, several nurses bustled into the room. In his fair French Sherlock gasped out that he was in agonizing pain and doubled over, shrieking, when they probed his abdomen. It was determined that he needed immediate scans and tests, and was swiftly wheeled screaming out of the room.

The dark-suited man tried to follow, but was stopped at the elevator.

When the doors closed Sherlock turned his face away to conceal the brief twitch of his smile.

* * *

Twenty-five minutes later, Sherlock found John.

It had been easy enough to slip away, to pilfer a uniform, shoes and a badge from a staff lounge; easier still to hack into an unattended computer and find the floor where patients with radiation poisoning were treated. He noted also with a twinge of unease that the same floor had extensive laboratory facilities.

A few moments more and he overcame a modestly difficult security wall in the hospital’s computer system and found John’s file, which he scanned with a sensation of horror he had not felt since seeing John nearly bleed to death before his eyes in Afghanistan. Parts of the file he could not access with the time he could safely devote. He swore and stalked down dimly lit hallways.

* * *

His mind was processing the fact that it must be the middle of the night now, and that this accounted for the stillness of the floor. There was no guard here, but Sherlock didn’t have the leisure to think about why this might be.

Because now the wave was finally here.

John was small and still against the hospital bed. Sherlock saw that John’s hands were covered with white mitts. He observed the outline of John’s face, drawn and sunken with fatigue and illness. He noted the random reddish blotches on John’s skin.

The wave thundered and broke and knocked him to his knees.

"John, John, I’m here," he gasped, fully aware that fragile though John was, it was only his strength, his heart, that could save him from drowning. He was touching John’s body under the sheet, his hair, letting the sensations under his fingers prove to him that this was John, John was here, alive, breathing, he was still here, his anchor, his center of gravity. He forced himself to remember, he was here to help John, but he knew, he _knew_ in his own weakness – despicable, pathetic – he was already failing.

John’s eyes fluttered open.

"Sherlock, you can’t be here, what are you doing?" He whispered. His face was contracted with pain and he learned over and began heaving into a pan, vomiting while Sherlock tried to support him. "Go away, Sherlock, it might not be safe," he croaked, pushing him feebly with white mitted fists.

Sherlock gripped the sides of the bed hard. He wasn’t going to let the wave take him. Not yet. Instead, he looked away from John’s drawn face, and focused on the institutional clock on the wall, black and white, letting his brain shuttle through the contents of John’s medical chart along with the sweep of the clock’s implacable red second hand: _acute radiation syndrome: onset of vomiting - not later than 2 hours at exposure 2 - 6 Gys – duration 24 - 48 hours - moderate fever – cognitive impairment onset between 6 and 20 hours – moderate to severe decrease to white blood cell count – hemorrhage – infection – mortality with care 5 - 50%._

_In cases of mortality death four to six weeks._

"John – what did they tell you? Do you know, did you – inhale, ingest, any contaminated material?" He disciplined his trembling voice to something resembling his ordinarily uber-confident tones. For John’s sake. John shook his head.

"Won’t tell me a thing," he mumbled. "I’m very tired Sherlock."

His eyes closed.

* * *

When they came for him, it took five orderlies to remove Sherlock, weeping raggedly and fighting like a banshee, from John’s bedside.

The wave swept him away and there was nothing left for him to hold.

 

* * *

When Lestrade found the stone barrow, Aguirre was whimpering like a trapped animal through the opening left for his face. Lestrade was overcome with a wave of nausea. He sat down and forced himself to wait. 

While he waited, he forced himself to listen.

When the time came, his hand had never shaken harder, but he drew his gun and pointed it at Aguirre's face.

"I'll only ask you once. Where did you send the canisters. If you tell the truth, I'll set you free. But if you lie, we'll know. If you lie to me ---"

Lestrade picked up another stone and made sure Aguirre could see it.


	12. The Ghosts of Sandakan

**August 1941. The Headquarters of the British North Borneo Chartered Company, London.**

"No defence!"

"No defence. In fact: scorched earth. Everything is to be sacrificed. Leave the Japs nothing but ashes."

"Scorched earth! What about the locals: you know, civil servants and such? Surely -- "

"Well, Governor Smith's a Company man, must do as he's told. Poor blighters. They're to be abandoned, then, if the worst happens. Churchill says he can't spare the troops or air support: not for Borneo. Well, perhaps we shall be fortunate. The Japanese aren't there yet. Perhaps they never shall be! Brandy?"

"Thanks, I believe I will."

* * *

**Late November 1941. Sandakan, North Borneo. Capital of the British North Borneo Chartered Company.**

Private Memorandum of Lieutenant-General Arthur E. Percival, General Officer Commanding, Malaya Command.

_"Completed 2-day tour to assess the adequacy of defence preparations. Nobody can pretend that this is a satisfactory situation -- we have left them absolutely defenceless here. . . ._

_"The best I could do was to tell them of the arrival of HMS Prince of Wales and HMS Repulse, due at Singapore in a few days . . ."_

**9 December 1941. The War Room. London.**

12:04: from HMS Repulse: Enemy aircraft bombing.

12:40: Emergency. Have been struck by a torpedo on port side Repulse hit by 1 torpedo. Send destroyers.

13:20: from HMS Vampire: HMS Repulse sunk.

13:21: from HMS Electra: HMS Prince of Wales sunk.

 

**9 December 1941. 10 Downing Street.* ***

Churchill was opening his dispatch boxes. It was very late, and he was in bed, frowning under the pool of light from the bedside table. The telephone rang.

"What is it?" Churchill growled.

‘Prime Minister -- " He recognized the strangled voice of the First Sea Lord, Admiral Sir Dudley Pound. Admiral Pound gave a sort of cough and gulp, and at first Churchill could not hear quite clearly.

"Prime Minister, I have to report to you that the Prince of Wales and the Repulse have both been sunk by the Japanese— Vice Admiral Tom Phillips is drowned."

Churchill put the telephone down. In all the war, he had never received a more direct shock.

Now there were no British or American ships in the Indian Ocean or the Pacific.

Except the American survivors of Pearl Harbor, who were hastening back to California.

Over this vast expanse of waters, Japan was supreme, and everywhere Britain was weak and naked.

* * *

**19 January 1942. Sandakan, North Borneo.**

**Last entry in the Official Log of Superintendent of Police for Sandakan, by Captain Ranjit Singh, acting Chief of Police:**

The Japanese have landed. Superintendent of Police Thomas Cornwall was recruited for the defense of the southern airfield. An asset deemed more valuable than Sandakan. I have command now.

The few British troops here are utterly inadequate in the face of enemy numbers. Our people are being shot, bayoneted, burned, and worse. I pray my wife is safe in the mountains by now.

It is fortunate that our Headquarters, a former counting-house for the cocoa plantations, is solidly built. We have secured it as a last refuge. There are more than one hundred here. I have just twenty guns. I hear them coming now.

**Mid-1943, Sandakan, North Borneo. A POW Camp.**

(In 1942, the Japanese established a POW camp at Sandakan for prisoner labor.)

Entry in Prison Commandant's Log:

_Prisoner: Ranjit Singh. Age: 45. [In league with resistance; caught by kempei-tai (secret police) in radio communication with prisoners. A former British civil servant in Police service. Enemy sympathiser and conspirator.]_

**February 15, 1945. Sandakan Death March, North Borneo.**

After discovering that the POWs were in communication with local resistance, prisoners were force marched from Sandakan to Ranau over some of the toughest and most remote jungle terrain on the planet.

Half died of exhaustion, starvation or illness during the death march. Those that could not keep up were executed. The half that made it to Ranau, died there.

Of 2,400 prisoners of war held by the Japanese at Sandakan, only six survived.

Ranjit Singh was not one of the six.

**4 April, 1946. Rabaul, Papau New Guinea.**

Captain Hoshijima Susumu, commandant of the Sandakan POW camp, is hanged for war crime atrocities in the Sandakan death marches.

* * *

**2 November. All Souls' Day. Ascot Racecourse, Berkshire, England.**

Sanjay "Sammy" Singh gazed at the photograph of his revered grandfather Ranjit Singh: red-turbaned, black-bearded, proud and stern, wearing his dress police uniform. Like all those in distant colonial backwaters in the twilight of the Empire, it was gaudy, with an excess of brass buttons and braid.

He remembered his own father's garments: no more than filthy rags, usually; and his own childhood garb, no better.

Sammy Singh now had a uniform, of sorts: crisply tailored bespoke suits, shirts and ties, the finest Bond Street could provide. Although some in in the service went in for Hong Kong tailors, he himself was loathe to perpetruate even the faintest of Asian connections. His scrupulously maintained standards required his entire wardrobe be supplied only by firms possessing a Royal Warrant.

He kissed his grandfather's photograph reverently and replaced it in the little Smythson portfolio he always carried.

He brought out a second photograph. This was a small -- but none the less impressive --- colonial-style mansion, walled and surrounded by lush palms. This was once his grandfather's house. It had been rebuilt, after the war. During the post-war boom, it was said that for a time, the largest concentration of millionaires in the world was to be found in Sandakan. The house was now a luxurious eco-hotel.

* * *

Singh consulted his watch. It was nearly time. He ignored the twinge of concern that so far, Agent Rennett had failed to neutralize Mycroft Holmes. Even his new partner, Detective Inspector Gregory Lestade of Scotland Yard, had evaded them. These failures would be addressed.

But neither was there any sign that Mycroft had penetrated Singh's plans. Aguirre had sent him a brief signal at the correct time.

No matter what Mycroft Holmes did now, the Day of Wrath was here.

In a week, nearly all of the younger Royals would be seated, watching the Coral Ascot hurdle races, directly above this spot.

He checked the secret compartment one last time. It had ducting that angled in several directions. This would be very useful. There would be no escape. He spoke into his headset. "All clear here. Meet me at the Royal Enclosure and we'll give it one last pass, shall we? Can't be too careful."

"Yes, sir. I'll be right up."

* * *

**2 November. AREVA Private Hospital for Nuclear Medicine and Research. Somewhere near Cherbourg, France.**

Sherlock told his captors succienctly what he had learned from in Willencourt, before he himself was shot and lost consciousness.

"They -- the Day of Wrath terrorists -- plan to smuggle canisters filled with radioactive particulates into airports and train stations around the world -- disguised as ordinary medical oxygen. Each canister would be enough, probably, to kill or seriously damage hundreds of people."

"Where? How many? When?"

"I don't know where, and I don't know when. Soon, I should say. But even assuming you can intercept all oxygen canisters - an impossible task -- another problem is that these terrorists have developed a black market source for radioactive waste."

"What do you mean by 'black market'?"

"Oh, come now. Not everything gets disposed of according to IAEA regulations. China, Russia, probably even France, everyone has some dirty little radioactive waste -- and nowhere safe to put it. And with enough help from the right sort of people -- for example, a nuclear physicist --- all sorts of interesting projects can be launched. Radioacive gas. Dirty bombs. They've gotten their hands on a plutonium core, apparently military grade -- like the one at Los Alamos, 1945. You know, the "demon core" experiments. I certainly hope you've got that locked up tight. Got it from the Russian black market, I'd say."

The men looked at him with astonishment. "Plutonium core? There was no plutonium core."

"Well, I didn't dream it. Ask Dr. Echavarri. John was holding it ---"

"Echavarri's dead. Maybe you killed him."

"I? I was shot, I was unconscious, for God's sake."

"Maybe you took the -- what did you call it -- 'demon core'."

"Don't be absurd. Where would I hide it? And I was unconscious. You know this. Look, if it wasn't for --" he was about to mention his brother's name, and stopped. Because so far, his name had not come up.

* * *

"I won't say anything more until you tell me everything about John Watson's condition -- he has radiation poisoning -- acute -- part of his chart is locked -- I suppose you are letting him -- just--" his voice shook and broke, "--die, is that it?"

"Mr. Holmes, your accusations are quite delusional. Doctor Watson is receiving the very best of care. This facility has state-of-the-art capabilities for treatment of acute radiation syndrome. His prognosis is -- well, we are doing everything that can be done."

"Then let me see his tests. Let me see his chart. His entire chart. NOW." Sherlock was making no effort to modulate his tone of voice; however, the French being undisputed masters of sneering disdain, his own brand of contempt appeared to be having little effect.

The hospital administrator, a distinguished silver-haired aristocrat, shook his head. "I'm sure you can appreciate, Mr. Holmes, that apart from every other consideration, we have our privacy regulations. You have no -- how may I put it --- legal relations -- with Doctor Watson. You are -- what did you say here," he consulted a folder "--- 'flatmates'? Here we say, colocotaire, cohabitant --- such persons have no rights of access to a patient's medical records."

Sherlock groaned in frustration. In Scotland, at Moy Castle, he had as much as proposed --- well, certainly he had meant it to be a commitment. A lifetime commitment. Months later John had said, casually enough, that "he didn't need a piece of paper" to prove anything about their bond. After that, neither of them had done anything more about it -- such as registering as civil partners -- nor in truth felt a need to.

Now he recalled that Mycroft had admonished him to be more responsible; more adult about the matter, and sent him packets of the necessary forms. These were presently buried under a pile of Italian forensic journals in 221b.

Now, he was being treated like a stranger to John Watson, when he was most needed.

"Well, surely -- he can simply sign -- what would you say, a directive for me to access his records," Sherlock said, changing tactics as he was consumed with peculiar feeling that anyone else might identify as a sinking heart. He was alreadly nearly numb from his struggle with the wave of panicked loss that had overtaken him, knowing John was stricken. But part of his mind was ticking away at the problem. Until he discovered the solution, he would have to try to appear to be reasonable.

"I am afraid not. This is not an ordinary facility. Doctor Watson is not an ordinary patient. There are many questions about your actions in Willencourt -- and how Doctor Watson came to be exposed to radiation at such levels."

"What are you saying? Please try to be clear."

There was a discreet buzzing and the aristocratic administrator waved at the door. The dark-suited man who had been sitting outside Sherlock's hospital room entered and began hauling Sherlock by his good arm out the door. There were three other men with him. None of them smiled.

"Yes. To be clear: Mr. Holmes, privacy is no longer the issue. This is now a matter of state security. As are Doctor Watson's records. As Doctor Watson is not presently in any condition to answer questions, and as you have now apparently recovered from your surgery, I believe that answers to these questions are expected . . . from you. I would say bonne chance, Monsieur, but --" the administrator gave a peculiarly Gallic shrug and shut the door firmly after Sherlock as he was dragged, howling, down the sterile corridor.

* * *

Sherlock began telling them everything, all over again. He was surrounded by four French agents of some intelligence agency. They questioned him in turn, impatiently, sceptically. Sherlock knew that the sooner he satisfied them, the sooner he could get to John. This clarified and purified his fragmented thoughts, devastated by the tidal wave that kept rolling over him, over and over, as he understood that John might very well die.

Not yet. Not yet. There’s time.

"Like I said before, you need to listen to me carefully. They have canisters. Disguised as ordinary medical oxygen. When, where, how many - I have no idea. Soon. And they have a plutonium core. You lot must be up on your nuclear history around here. Don’t waste time with me – ask Aguirre. He was there, he is your mastermind. And Dr. Echavarri. They have black market connections, he said. They said they were taking it on the TGV train, London to Calais. Echavarri’s in on the entire plot. These terrorists have been very busy indeed and are rather omnivorous in their nuclear tastes. Haven’t you interrogated them?"

"We would rather hear from you."

"Look, I was shot, remember? I was unconscious. You’re wasting time."

"Dr. Echavarri’s dead. We think you killed him. And we didn’t find Aguirre. Are you quite sure you saw him?"

"I? I didn’t kill Echavarri – look, you do have ballistics here, yes? I never fired my gun at him: do your forensics. And Aguirre was there – he was talking to John, John was . . .he was holding the case. The case with the plutonium core. Look, I need to see John."

He remembered John clutching the case containing the demon core. Perhaps there had been a struggle: perhaps John had been forced to shoot Echavarri, or Aguirre. Or both.

Insufficient data.

"Tell us again about this plutonium core."

Sherlock could not conceal his astonishment. "You mean you don’t have Aguirre? You don’t have the plutonium case?"

"We don’t have any such things, Mr. Holmes. Nothing like that was found in Willencourt. Did you hide it? What about Doctor Watson? Did he take it?"

He realised again that not once since he had been in this facility had he heard his brother’s name. No one had mentioned Mycroft. Nor Lestrade.

And now it was clear that Aguirre had not been captured, if they were telling the truth.

And also telling the truth about the fact that no one knew where the plutonium core was.

It followed that somehow, Mycroft had taken the demon core himself.

Or, Aguirre had.

* * *

"Look," Sherlock said seriously, "Don’t you think you’d better consider the probability that Aguirre has escaped? He was definitely there, in Willencourt. Why would I lie? And if he’s escaped, he’s taken the plutonium. I assume you know the damage it can do. But that’s not the least of your worries."

Two of the men fled the room. The remaining two were frantically working their mobiles.

"Not . . . the least of our worries?" One of them said. "You will please explain that remark, monsieur."

Sherlock folded his arms, and felt a sharp stabbing from his shoulder wound as a result. This only served to bring back painful thoughts of John, of John’s own shoulder wound from Afghanistan. He shivered.

"I’m not telling you anything more until you give me unlimited access to Doctor Watson, let me see his files. His complete files. And – permission to administer treatments. It’s not so much to ask, really."

"Believe me when I say, monsieur, that you will tell us what you meant by that remark. And you are not in a position to make conditions."

"If you think you can just make me talk," Sherlock sneered, "I think you’ll find that rather a daunting undertaking. At any rate I imagine you’ll find out what I mean soon enough - but you’ll have lost any time advantage you might have gained. Let’s say --- you could make me talk. That might take forty-eight hours, seventy-two hours, I’ll give you that, for the sake of argument. Unlikely, but still, that is an eternity, isn’t it? When you’re talking about a nuclear threat.

"Give me what I want, you’ll know what you want within the hour."

* * *

Half an hour later, Sherlock was incandescent with rage and had to be forcibly restrained from breaking John’s doctor’s neck with his good arm.

"It’s experimental, a very promising new drug, Mr. Holmes!"

"It isn’t working, you moron!" Sherlock roared. "Look at his white cell count! Your drug is a failure! You’ve been using John Watson as a – as a – guinea pig — I’ll see you in hell if he doesn’t come through this, I swear it!"

The doctor shrank back, muttering over the chart notes. "I thought —" he said feebly.

"Don’t. Think." Sherlock snarled. "Ever. Again. Take me to your laboratory."

_A dose of Prussian blue capsules, then, obviously was the place to start. Acute exposure to ionizing radiation triggering apoptotic cell death of hematopoietic stem and progenitor cells, leaving the victim highly susceptible to infection and hemorrhage. A cocktail of cytokines . . . stem cell factor, Flt-3 ligand, thrombopoietin and interleukin-3 . . .granulocyte-macrophage colony-stimulating factor used off-label to speed neutrophil recovery and stimulate residual hematopoiesis ---_

He scribbled a note out and thrust it at the doctor. "Get me all of it. Exactly what I’ve written there. All of it, do you understand? If you don’t have it here, have it brought. I don’t care if you have to fly it in."

The intelligence agents were fuming. "Now Mr. Holmes, let’s stay on target, if you please? You were going to tell us about our 'bigger problem.'"

"Yes. A much bigger problem." Sherlock was running, nearly flying down the hallways to the laboratory now, and the agents sped after him. Sherlock was assembling materials, pouring liquids into beakers, and staring at John’s blood samples under an electron microscope.

"Do you know how Doctor Watson came to be contaminated?" He snapped at the doctor, who had returned meekly bearing the items Sherlock had ordered.

The doctor nodded cautiously. "Cesium-137. Cesium choride. Highly radioactive. Easily fragmented. Distinctive blue glow. Byproduct of nuclear fission of uranium. He had a quantity of Cesium-137 on his skin, in his hair and in his garments. Doctor Watson – inhaled a small amount as well."

Sherlock’s brain was already mapping out the likely strength of exposure, the volume inhaled, the probable consequences. A dose of Prussian blue capsules, then, obviously was the place to start.

"John Watson handled the body of one of the terrorists. That man had radiation burns on his skin. I knew it could not have been from handling the plutonium core – he would never have opened that case -- and if he had, it would have killed him, within hours. That man had been traveling more than just a few hours, from the signs on his garments and his shoes. Before he was shot, that man was ill; yes, but not that ill. Ill from a source that would give him burns on his skin. A number of sources come to mind, but Cesium-137 is one of the most readily obtainable – primarily from third-world medical facilities; also, if one has the right connections, from nuclear power plants. Like La Hague, for example."

"What are you trying to say?"

"What I’m trying to say is that that man showed every sign of having been on board a ship in the past twenty four hours, where he accidentally contaminated himself with Cesium-137. Cesium-137 is the perfect vehicle for a dirty bomb. And it is generated at La Hague."

"But he didn’t have any quantity of Cesium-137 on his person, just the residual contaminant."

"Yes. You are starting to understand. The Cesium-137 is not going to be taken off the ship. It is going to stay on the ship. Along with the other cargo."

"'The ship'? What ship?"

"Surely you’ve guessed it by now? A specialized cargo vessel. The vessel is carrying MOX fuel and Cesium-137 originating from the La Hague nuclear plant, via Cherbourg, bound for Japan. But the ship has already been infiltrated by Day of Wrath terrorists amongst the crew. And it will take very little, I assure you, to make the MOX go critical, or to cause a dispersal accident on a much wider scale than their little canisters. Those canisters were meant to be just a foretaste of things to come.

"You have an oceangoing, moveable nuclear threat of apocalyptic proportions."

"How do you know all this?"

Sherlock spoke rapidly as he finished assembling the treatment regimen for John’s consumption.

"Paint flecks: on the dead man’s shoes and on his jacket. They were large, and numerous. Haven’t had a chance to look at them under a microscope but if one did, I am virtually certain the paint from his shoes is paint from the deck of a British-flagged transport ship out of Barrow. Pacific Nuclear Transport Limited. I’d say it’s probable that she’s the Pacific Heron: entered service in 2008. And the paint flakes on the man’s jacket are almost certainly that particular paint used for nuclear radiation warning symbols on transport casks. Bring me the paint flakes and I'll verify it.

"I suggest that somebody formulate a plan to board that ship immediately and secure the crew and cargo – before they start a nuclear holocaust."

Sherlock had barely finished before the remaining two agents fled the room to deliver Sherlock’s shocking intelligence report up the chain of command.

"Now that I’ve saved the world for you," Sherlock announced, flourishing several pharmaceutical cocktails, "perhaps you would get out of my way and permit me to save Doctor Watson."

 

To be continued . . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * * Churchill's reaction to the sinking of HMS Repulse and HMS Prince of Wales is taken nearly verbatim from his memoirs.


	13. Antidote

Title: **All Souls' Day: A Mystrade Adventure, Part 2. Chapter Two: Antidote**  
author: ghislainem70  
word count: 3,000  
Rating: NC-17  
Warnings: graphic violence, explicit sex.  
Summary:  _**Mycroft and Lestrade are hunted by traitors from within MI6 as they race to stop a terrorist conspiracy called The Day of Wrath.**_  
Disclaimer: I own nothing. All honours to Messrs Gaitss, Moffat, BBC et al.

Mycroft was dismayed by the ease with which he was able to enter the Ascot Racecourse, a favored venue for the Royals. It was dusk and the track was empty. The few security guards seemed complacent to the point of somnambulance.

He consulted the map he had taken from Aguirre. It was not, regrettably, a map of the planned destinations for the canisters of radioactive gas.  He hadn't expected Aguirre to be so stupid as to set such secret plans down on paper, and he hadn't been. 

Thinking about the canisters made him painfully aware of the bleak duty he had placed on Lestrade's shoulders.  Yet another score to settle with those responsible. 

Unbidden, he had a very clear image of Lestrade, down in that dark mine shaft, and prayed that Aguirre had not somehow found a way to get the better of him.  He did not permit himself to imagine any future reunion between he and Lestrade.  He understood very well that he would have to find a way, a way to school himself to suppress, to forget, what he really never had and probably never had the right to try to have. 

The map was simply a schematic of the Ascot racecourse facilities, probably pilfered from the maintenance offices. There was a minute red dot that marked a service door beneath the track's seating areas.

From Aguirre's own mobile he had confirmed the rendezvous with Singh. At least, he had deduced that it had to be Singh. If he was right, and Singh was the traitor, he could not imagine Singh entrusting this particular phase of this scheme of descrution to anyone else.

There was a simple padlock here. Mycroft picked it and entered a long dark service corridor, lit by scattered pools of fluorescent light.

In his hand he carried the heavy plutonium case.

He heard the echoing shuffle of a footfall, less stealthy than his own. And then the outline of a dark figure approaching.

"It is All Souls' Day," Singh said, his face still in darkness.

Mycroft replied, "The Day of Wrath," in heavy Euskara: his voice, he hoped, fully disguised. So far as he knew, Singh had no knowledge of Euskara at all: if he understood Mycroft, that alone would be highly incriminating.  He felt a cold and venomous anger at this traitor, a man he had worked with at the highest levels of trust.

Singh stepped into the light now. "A day to remember the sacrifices of our ancestors," he said in poor but intelligible Euskara.

Mycroft stepped forward now, too. Singh was visibly shocked.

"Where is Aguirre?"

Mycroft was disguised as a Basque, full dark hair and moustache under a traditional cap, long black leather jacket. He had applied an elaborate silicone mask, making his nose even more prominent, his skin darker. Dark lenses for his eyes. He was wearing garments that bulked up his silhouette considerably.   It was obvious Singh did not recognise him, or even suspect the imposture.   

"It is not for you to question Aguirre's plans. He sent me. I have what you are waiting for."   He held up the case in the light.

"Put the case down, onto the floor, turn around, and leave the way you came. Do it now -- or I'll shoot.". Singh produced the expected gun.

Mycroft sighed. So predictable.

"I think no. I also have a gun, senor. And friends outside. Aguirre doesn't trust you. You let Mycroft Holmes escape. That Scotland Yard detective, too.  They are talking to French intelligence. They found out about the canisters. Aguirre knows who to blame.  If I don't report back at the correct time. . .  And you know what he can do."

Singh was visibly perspiring in the cold air of the corridor. "That's. . .  impossible. Give me the case."  He stepped closer to Mycroft and held out his hand.

"No. First --  show me exactly where we will plant the core."

"You know?"

Mycroft smiled. "You think Aguirre would send me if I did not?"

Singh pointed to a duct in the ceiling. "It is just here -- below the Royal Enclosure. Just as we planned. The timing mechanism is already secured.  Now -- give me the case, I want to speak to Aguirre myself."   He went for his mobile.

"Change of plan.  You will see the Day of Wrath fulfilled."   Mycroft said as Singh hesitated, confused. 

Mycroft reached into his jacket and pulled on the black mask of the full body radiation suit concealed under his clothes.

And he threw open the case.

Inside rested a dull lead-coloured ball.

It emitted a strange blue flash of light.

Aguirre screamed.

"No -- Not yet!! It's radioactive --- you're insane!! You've killed me!"  Singh ran, shrieking as though he were burning.

Mycroft calmly waited until Singh reached the other end of the corridor. 

* * *

Singh was banging fruitlessly on a door which would not open. He was hyperventilating, vomiting, and sank to his knees as Mycroft approached and gently took the gun from his shaking fingers.

Mycroft rapped five times on the door and it opened. Singh was keening like an animal in a trap. The whites of his eyes, stretched wide with terror, shone in the dim light.

Mycroft dragged him into the waiting horse trailer and hit him with the Taser. It was the work of a moment to bind and gag him.  When he was sure Singh was secure, he climbed into the truck. There were three men here, and at Mycroft's signal, one got out and pulled a horse into the trailer with Singh.

Mycroft checked his mobile. Yes, the light had been good enough. Barely. He played back the video and thought the sound quite good, under the circumstances.  And there were enhancements that would make everything very, very clear.

He hit mute when Singh started screaming.  

Then he hit "Send."

* * *

Mycroft permitted himself a moment of self-congratulation on a fortuitous circumstance.  He had recently assassinated a highly placed Russian mafia boss -- broken his neck, with his bare hands not to put too fine a point on it, in the cockpit of a Learjet --  at the height of a turf war between Russian and Chechen gangs of Liverpool.  He had done this for Lestrade's protection.  Another sin Lestrade didn't need to know about, would never know about.  And so, Mycroft now found himself in the position of reaping an unexpected reward.

He turned to his driver. "Drive, Nikolai, fast,"  Mycroft said in his competent Chechen as two dark figures approached the truck, running.  They left them in the dust and soon they were speeding down the M4.

* * * .

Singh was awake now and shrieking through his gag.

Mycroft looked through the little window into the trailer. The man guarding Singh looked at Mycroft and Mycoft gave a brief nod. "Not too hard, Pashi."

Pashi gave Singh a vicious kick in the ribs. "Shut up, traitor," he said.

It was so useful to have the Chechens in one's debt.

* * *

Lestrade’s self revulsion reached depths he could never have imagined before this moment.

Aguirre struggled, gasping and shuddering as though he were being electrocuted under his impromptu stone grave. He was coughing and straining as though he would suffocate, and repeated over and over that he could not breathe.

He choked out a plea, begging Lestrade to help him, to have mercy. Aguirre was so wild with fear did not focus on Lestrade’s gun until Lestrade planted the barrel in the middle of his forehead to get his attention.

"The canisters. I mean it," he said. And he did. God help him.

And was astonished when Aguirre finally stammered out the names: Gare du Nord. Heathrow. Barajas Airport Madrid. On the list went. The gas in the canisters would be released simultaneously in four hours.

Lestrade pulled out his mobile and called the number Mycroft had given him. When Mycroft answered all he said, voice tight, was:

"Are you all right?"

Lestrade was momentarily unable to speak. He was so far from ‘all right’ that there were no words to describe his feelings.

"I’m safe," he settled for.

"Greg –"

He cut him off. "Here are the names." In a professional monotone, as though giving a briefing back at the Yard, he gave Mycroft the list.

There was a moment’s silence where they could hear one another’s breathing. If he felt a yearning in that moment Lestrade tried to bury it.

"Stay with him. French officers from DCRI, the Internal Intelligence Directorate, will be with you very soon. If you can safely release him, do it now."

"You didn’t think I was going to leave him like this, did you?" Lestrade said laconically. Then he relented. "Tell me, are you –"

But the line was silent and Mycroft, he realized, was gone. "– safe." He whispered to the air.

He bent and began ripping stones away from Aguirre’s bound body, possessed by a fury so deep that when the French arrived, they found him cursing, hurling stones against the walls of the tunnel with hands torn and bleeding, while Aguirre, freed from the stone barrow and propped, bound, against the pile of stones, watched with dark glittering eyes that despite his ordeal, were unafraid.

* * *

After a long but rather civilized debriefing during which Lestrade felt that his excellent French was doing more for his credibility than his recitation of his unbelievable adventures since leaving London in possession of the DIES IRAE coin, Lestrade found himself escorted to a hotel suite somewhere in Calais.

He was accompanied by a polite but very well armed French agent who obeyed every request of Lestrade’s, except his request to leave him alone.  No one would give him any news of Sherlock and John other than they were receiving good care at a French hospital, and were being kept in seclusion for security reasons.

Finally, convinced there was nothing to be done, Lestrade gave the agent a rueful smile. "It’s all right, mate. I’m not going to jump out the window, or try for your gun. You’re just doing your job; I was doing mine. Just give me some privacy, will you?" he said in French. "What can I do?" He added, pointing to his broken leg.

The agent nodded. " _Oui, certainement, Monsieur L’inspectuer_ ," he said in respectful tones.

Lestrade felt that things must be going better than they seemed. If he was in serious trouble with the French authorities, he didn’t think the agent would bother with good manners, let alone respect.

Deep weariness attacked his limbs but Lestrade resisted falling into bed. Instead, a hot shower and some food. He couldn’t remember when he had last eaten. They had sent a doctor to examine his leg, who had evidenced extreme shock and disapproval and had stood by until he took some medication, including painkillers that he was grateful for, this time.

* * *

He took brief shower, awkwardly holding his broken leg outside the shower curtain to protect his cast. Against his will the shower, the hot water running down his body, brought back a strong memory. The first time he had ever been with Mycroft. In a luxurious hotel where Mycroft had taken him down, mastered him, and he had given himself up to it, to Mycroft, in a way he had never done before.  Afterward, Mycroft had gently showered him off and taken him back to bed where they had fallen into a blissful slumber. He found he couldn’t turn this memory off, even if he had wished to.

With these exquisite memories flooding his heart and mind, Lestrade ignored the plate of food that had been brought for him and sank into the bed. He propped up his leg, throbbing under the fog of painkillers. He immediately fell asleep under the watchful eye of the French agent, who discreetly turned off the light and watched television with the sound off.

The news everywhere was all of the astonishing capture of the Day of Wrath terrorist, Aguirre, by an heroic off-duty Scotland Yard police detective on holiday, who had saved the world from a diabolical coordinated attack of radioactive gas disguised in medical oxygen canisters.

The agent looked at Lestrade’s sleeping form with envy. Perhaps some of the glory would be reflected upon him if he was allowed to keep this duty post. Nothing this important had happened to him in his entire career.

While he slept, Lestrade dreamed.

* * *

Sherlock demanded that he be personally given John’s urine samples to test. The rate of elimination of radioactive isotopes from the human body was most readily determined in that fashion. He vaguely noticed that French intelligence agents were still following his every move, but at a distance.   He couldn't be bothered by this: his entire being was focused on John’s condition.

His recovery, he determinedly told himself.

Sherlock held John’s hand. John looked worse, he had to admit. The pharmaceutical cocktail he had administered had very harsh physical side effects of their own, he reminded himself.

"John, tell me how you are feeling," he said, forcing his voice to be calm and steady.  When John grinned, Sherlock was shocked at how translucent his skin suddenly looked, as though one could almost see the skull below the surface. A trick of the light, he told himself.

"Sherlock. Stop it. I’m a doctor, remember," John said weakly, but with an effort at smiling – for Sherlock’s sake. "I know what this is."

They looked at each other.

"I’m not letting you go, John," Sherlock said. "Never."

John squeezed back on his hand but his grip was weak. "You don’t have to. Just – I expect your best effort.  All that – mess in 221b - our kitchen – chemicals and exploding beakers and --  leaking body parts – now’s the chance to really show me . . . show me what you can do," John said feebly as another wave of nausea gripped him. They had given him anti-nausea drugs but seemingly, his body was still rebelling.

Sherlock helped him through it and when the spasm passed, he wiped his face with a cool cloth.

"John, there’s something I want you to do for me."

John waited, too weak to speak.

"I want to have a _notaire_ brought in," Sherlock said rapidly. "You know, like a French lawyer. For us to sign papers. . . civil partnership. John I want us to be – partners, married, if you like. In the eyes of the law. We can notarize the forms here, in France. I’ll – have them couriered to London for registry." His heart was pounding painfully in his chest.

 _"Sherlock."_

"Say yes, John." He was squeezing John’s hand too hard, he knew. He made a conscious effort to loosen his grip.

"You’re asking me – are you really asking me to – marry you? Here? Now?"

"Yes. John. Now. Will you marry me now. Say yes, John. _Say yes_."

"You know I don’t need – " John started, but stopped. The look that passed between them: a deep and timeless love, and in Sherlock’s eyes, endless pain, told John everything.

"I’m going to die, aren’t I."

"No, no, I won’t let you. But say yes, John.  Please."  Sherlock flung himself onto John and pressed a kiss to his forehead. He would gladly have kissed his lips, but John had forbidden it. He was still afraid of contaminating Sherlock.   "John. I — " he swallowed, hard. Feelings: the tidal wave.

He wasn’t afraid of it any more.

"I love you, John.  Say yes."

John made an effort and brought Sherlock’s hand to his own lips and kissed the faded scar on Sherlock’s palm.  For just a moment, they were not here; and they were free, happy.

"Yes, Sherlock."

* * *

When Sherlock finished the next test, he had to sit down. He felt dizzy. There was something very, very wrong with John’s test.  He rang for the doctor, whose name he now knew as Dr Philippe Carre.

Then Dr. Carre came, and Sherlock now recognized the falsity, the lie in his eyes. He asked anyway.

"I want to test for alpha rays, Carre. Right now." But even as the words left his lips, he staggered and crumpled to the floor. And was vomiting, uncontrollably, as he clutched at the doctor’s lab coat. His vision blurred.

Dr. Carre smiled.

"You are very clever, Mr. Holmes. And so you will understand when I tell you that I cannot permit alpha ray testing. Not for Doctor Watson. And not for you."

Sherlock was on the floor now. "Why — "

Carrie sneered. "AREVA owns this entire hospital. AREVA owns the entire La Hague nuclear facility. It is AREVA’s shipment of MOX fuel that has been hijacked. You don’t imagine, do you, that AREVA would permit this story to be spread all over the news?  MOX fuel hijcked --  a nuclear threat roaming the ocean in the hands of terrorists -- a global panic! Do you really think we would let you? No. AREVA would be destroyed.

"You and Doctor Watson will die here.  An unfortunate consequence of your exposure to fatal levels of radiation during your brave battle with nuclear terrorists at Willencourt.  Aguirre has been captured, incidentally, by one of your own compatriots: a detective from Scotland Yard. He is quite the media hero. They intercepted the canisters just in time. That is quite enough for the public. And there the story will end. No one will ever learn about the ship."

"What did you give us?"

Carre looked at Sherlock expectantly. "Mr. Holmes. I’ve been most impressed with your knowledge and abilities during your short stay with us. You could have been a very great scientist, you know. I suppose you are, in a way. And so I imagine you have a very good idea what you’ve been given."

Sherlock struggled and sat up. His head cleared a little.

"Polonium-210. Alpha ray emitter.  Almost undetectable. The Russians used it to assassinate Litvinenko in London."

"Yes. And so, you know why we chose Polonium-210."

Sherlock held back tears.  Not for himself. These were for John.

He had failed after all.

"There’s no antidote," he gasped.

　

　

to be continued . . .

 **Listen to Antidote** : [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VbIww4bv7Yg&feature=related](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VbIww4bv7Yg&feature=related)

 _back:_


	14. The Courage

__  
****I'm a beast, I'm an animal,  
I'm that monster in the mirror:  
The headliner -  
finisher -  
I'm the closer -  
winner -  
Best when under pressure:  
with seconds left  
I show up.  


  
Lyrics to More, all rights reserved Usher

Lestrade woke to find the agent drooping before the television. He distracted himself for a moment by hunting for football scores. Arsenal had defeated Chelsea at Stamford Bridge three days ago. He had tickets to the match. He smirked to himself involuntarily. If they had been in London – would Mycroft have agreed to go with him? Already that seemed like a year ago, another life. He couldn’t understand himself. Right about now, his feelings about Mycroft Holmes were, to say the least, conflicted.

He imagined Mycroft shooting a player who missed a goal.

“Fuck,” he swore, at Mycroft, at life. They were playing a clip of Arsenal running victorious off the field.

The agent roused himself. “Ah, you like football? My team’s Paris-St-Germain. We are hoping Beckham moves from Los Angeles.”

“Yeah, well, champion for Becks. They pay him enough. I’m a Chelsea man myself.”

They watched replays of the week’s football highlights, cheering St-Germain, who had won a decisive victory, and jeering the losers, companionably.

The agent’s mobile was buzzing.

“ _Monsieur l’inspecteur_ , please to get ready. The _Directoire_ says they are ready for you now.”

“Ready - for me? What’s you mean? I can go?”

The agent looked at him, star-struck. “No, sir. It’s a press conference.”

“I must be missing something. I didn’t agree to give a press conference.”

The agent switched the channel. And then the next. There was nothing in the news but running clips of a mug shot of Aguirre; shots of the Day of Wrath terrorists, caught in airports and train stations around the world; a statement by some French official; and, over and over, Lestrade, leaning on his cane, being respectfully escorted into a limousine as he left the debriefing. He remembered the cameras, now.

But he hadn’t expected anything like this.

The headlines all emphasized that Lestrade, the hero of Scotland Yard, had French ancestry. They had even contacted Edouard, his cousin, still working with Alain Ducasse after the closure of the Basque restaurant from an ETA bombings. Edouard had been promoted up to executive chef of possibly Ducasse’s most famous restaurant: the Jules Verne in the Eiffel Tower. Edouard blinked into the blinding camera lights and said that as soon as Lestrade could make the time, he would prepare him a memorable dinner at his restaurant.

“I think you need to attend this one, _Monsieur L’inspecteur._ ”

“Why?”

The agent gulped, awestruck. “President Sarkozy is here. I believe – you are to be honoured, sir.”

Lestrade blinked. “Look – this is all — I’m not ready, hell, this is out of control.”

The agent was grinning quite unprofessionally. “Sir, you’ll need help walking. I’m to take you to the conference.”

“What did you say your name was?”

“Rene Plessy. I’m with Internal Security, sir.”

“Right. Plessy. Give me a minute.”

Lestrade turned and pulled out his mobile. He called the only number he had for Mycroft, the number Mycroft had made him swear to call when Aguirre gave up the canister targets. He hoped Mycroft was still keeping that line open.

It rang for a long time and went to voicemail. He swore. “Mycroft. Damn you. Why don’t you pick up. I need – look. If you have any idea where Sherlock and John are, I need to know right now. Right now, do you understand. Call me – or if we aren’t speaking, fine by me. Send me a text.”

This vague story about Sherlock and John being kept in “seclusion” for “security” reasons had been sitting uncomfortably in the back of his mind. He wasn’t a detective for nothing. It was too mysterious, especially as his own part in the Day of Wrath had become so notorious, they were practically forcing him into the spotlight.

Why were Sherlock and John being kept behind the scenes?

He had been provided a good suit and tie. He waved off Plessy’s offer to help him dress and managed it with some difficulty. He checked the mirror. He looked properly serious. He found his new cane and popped a pain pill for his leg.

His mobile buzzed and there was a terse text from an blocked number. “ _AREVA Hospital for Nuclear Medicine. Querqueville, Normandy._ ”

“Press conference, then. Right. Let’s go. I have a few questions of my own,” he said, and they headed out slowly, Lestrade limping painfully, down a corridor and into an elevator. Then they were pushing out the glass doors of the hotel and facing blinding lights and a screaming crowd. Lestrade was taken aback.

They were screaming his name.

Plessy instinctively handed over his own sunglasses, and Lestrade put them on as the roaring crowd rushed forward and they ducked into a waiting car.

* * *

At the press conference, President Sarkozy gave some statesmanlike remarks about the swiftness with which French authorities had coordinated with international law enforcement to bring down the Day of Wrath terrorists before a single civilian could be harmed. He repeated what by now was apparently the legendary story of Lestrade singlehandedly capturing Aguirre in the historic mines of Courrieres. Lestrade had been briefed before the conference to say nothing of his actual encounter with Aguirre for state security reasons, which he was more than glad to agree to.

When the moment came, Lestrade, a press-conference veteran, conducted the conference in French, and said a few self-effacing words about having done his duty, same as any Frenchman would have done given the same opportunity. Asked what he had been doing since his ordeal was over, he joked,

“Watching Paris St.-Germain play some brilliant football. Wishing I could say the same for Chelsea.” The crowd went wild at this. Now was the moment.

“I have a question. I hope somebody can answer it,” he said. The room fell silent. President Sarkozy looked concerned. This was off script. But no one tried to stop him.

“My two closest friends were in Willencourt as well. I don’t believe this has been given attention by your press. Their names are Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson. Mr. Holmes, I think, was shot. I’ve been told both of them are ill and may have been exposed to radiation. I’m no hero – but if anybody in this story is, it’s them. They could have died. They might even be dead. I have tried to find out their condition. I want to see them. All anyone will tell me is that they are in ‘seclusion.’

“Today, I learned that they are in the AREVA Hospital for Nuclear Medicine. For those of you that don’t know, that’s in Normandy. You have all been very kind to me, and it’s more than I deserve. But, if you want to show me any gratitude at all, take me to my friends right now. Straight away. It’s all I ask.”

He looked at Sarkozy, and saw that Sarkozy seemed surprised. But not surprised enough. One of Sarkozy’s functionaries started babbling into the microphone that this was a matter for state security and could not be discussed publicly, to the roar of the press who smelled blood in the water. The functionary said that they would try to get an update to Lestrade, soon.

“Update?” Lestrade shouted to the shouting, jostling journalists. “I beg your pardon, but I don’t think you heard me. These men are my closest friends. Now I know where they are. I’ll give an exclusive to the first journalist that can get me to that hospital quickest. The rest of you are free to tag along. I think my friends would be very cheered by a group visit.”

Lestrade flashed a grin into the cameras.

Within moments, he was borne off by the fiercely combative representatives of CanalPlus, who were already planning a movie about the Day of Wrath. Plessy dove into the convoy with Lestrade.

“They want me to stay with you, sir,” he said breathlessly. His clothes had been somewhat torn in his struggle through the crowd.

“Fine by me,” Lestrade said absently. The CanalPlus writer was eager to start an interview, but Lestrade waved her off. “Get me there first – then we’ll talk: sooner I’m in, the sooner you get your story.”

He was looking at a map on his mobile. Querqueville. It was near Cherbourg. And near the La Hague nuclear plant.. . .operated be AREVA. As was the hospital. This seemed logical, that a huge nuclear facility might have its own hospital. He recognised that the hospital was likely to have serious security.

Possibly not the sort of place you could just waltz into.

“Plessy.”

“Sir?”

“Have you got a gun?” He still had his, but they had politely relieved him of his clip.

“Of course, sir.” Plessy lifted his jacket to show his holstered Glock.

There would be hell to pay, later, Lestrade imagined, back at the Yard. Publicly they might be forced to go along with all of this hero nonsense. Privately, he would probably be lucky to keep his job, let alone his Specialist Firearms Officer status. Unless Mycroft —

He had kept Mycroft’s involvement to the bare minimum, saying just enough to imply that they both had been operating under MI6 sanction. He figured the intelligence wires had been humming between the two nations. He had several voicemails from Yard officials that he figured could wait. He had far more pressing business.

What had really happened to John and Sherlock?

* * *

In 2000, Alexander Valterovich Litvinenko, a former FSB (Federal Security Service) officer, fled Russia and sought asylum in the UK. Litvenenko had been arrested in Russia daring to accuse the FSB of ordering a hit on the Russian oligarch Boris Berezovsky (who in the event survived, and fled to London).

In London, Litvinenko became a journalist and dissident, publicly accusing the FSB of orchestrating Putin’s rise to power by deliberate staged terrorist attacked calculated to catapult Putin to the top.

On 1 November, 2006, Litvinenko went to a meeting at the Millenium Hotel in Grosvenor Square. He met with two Russian operatives, former colleagues in the intelligence community. The men had drinks. Litvinenko was served a cup of tea.

On the evening of 1 November, 2006, Litvinenko fell ill with vomiting and diarrhea and was admitted to hospital. The doctors were baffled, but ultimately diagnosed thallium poisoning. He was treated for radiation poisoning, including Prussian blue, but he did not recover. He died in agony on 23 November. On his deathbed, he denounced Putin for his death.

An autopsy revealed that Litvinenko had been poisoned by polonium-210, which doctors had failed to detect until two hours before his death. This extremely rare radioactive element does not emit gamma rays, only weak alpha rays undetectable by ordinary equipment.

Polonium-210 harms humans only if ingested or inhaled, directly or through the bodily fluid of a contaminated animal or person.

Scotland Yard’s Terrorism Unit declared that Litvinenko’s death was being treated as a murder.

A radioactive trail allegedly led directly to one of the men who had met Litvinenko in the Millenium Hotel – Andrei Lugovi. The trail led to Lugovi’s hotel room, to cars he used, to his airplane seat back to Russia. Russia has refused extradition. Lugovi is a deputy in the Russian Duma; an apparent Putin protégé.

Others theorize that instead of having been assassinated by Lugovi, Litvinenko came into contact with a polonium-210 smuggling ring in London, and was either unwittingly or deliberately poisoned by persons unknown.

In October 2011, the Coroner for St. Pancras announced a new inquest into Litvinenko’s murder.

Whitehall sources continue to consider the use of plutonium in central London in this case as an “act of war.”

* * *

Sherlock reeled. He forced himself to mentally reviewed, in a flash, everything he knew about the single most notorious case of plutonium-210 poisoning, the murder of Alexander Litvinenko.

“When?” he whispered. “Just tell me.”

Carre regarded him cooly. As a precaution Carre had pulled on thick rubber gloves and had pulled a mask over his nose and mouth.

“Your morning coffee. Doctor Watson’s was administered in his morning IV drip.”

“How much?”

Carre shrugged. “Not an easy . . . substance to obtain, or to handle, and certainly not in quantity. I deem the dose to have been . . sufficient.”

Sherlock felt his entire body rebelling. Although he knew some of this was psychosomatic, he also could feel that there was a fundamental wrongness in his nausea, in the cramping of his bowels. Soon he would be too weak to help himself, let alone John. His mind was already mapping out cellular damage.

“I’m moving you to another wing now,” Carre said calmly. “All I can tell you is that it won’t be long.”

“Not as long as Litvinenko, then?”

“Difficult to say,” Carre admitted. “Your death will make a valuable study. Not one that can be published, of course.” He gave a little snort as though the thought were somehow humorous.

Sherlock’s rage knew no limits, and still it climbed higher – that John, his love, his life, John who had survived Afghanistan, the Taliban, had survived Moriarty, had risked his life for him more times than he cared to count, given him so much, given him love, given him _a real life_ – in return for – what? Sherlock faced what he had always known, really – he had never given John enough, never nearly enough, always so distracted, _so bored_ , always something else to fascinate his brain (that eleventh-hour, almost deathbed proposal _pathetic_ , John should have _laughed in his face_ at the inadequacy) – that John should be cut down now, a cowardly and agonizing death by poison, merely to protect the privileges of a behemoth corporation – for a minute Sherlock was completely paralyzed, in body and mind, and he knelt on the cold floor, shuddering.

“Have courage, Mr. Holmes. It will be over soon enough,” Carre said. “There’s really nothing to be done.”

Sherlock did not move.

"Courage, did you say? What do you know about courage? John Watson has more courage than you've ever see in your miserable life," Sherlock was raving.

Carre bent down to haul Sherlock up, but as he was a small man, pale and flabby from relentless hours of laboratory research work, he lacked the strength. He sighed. He would call for help. He reached up to press the button.

Sherlock’s arm snaked up and whipped Carre around. Sherlock’s leg snapped out and swept Carre’s legs out from under him. Before he quite knew what was happening, he was on the floor and Sherlock was sitting on him, pinning him, and he couldn’t move at all, couldn’t breathe. Sherlock snapped his skull against the cold floor, hard, once, just enough to make him see stars. While that was happening he felt Sherlock untying his shoes, which was odd until he felt his ankles roughly bound. He started scrabbling for the door but Sherlock was pinning him hard and had a bony hand clamped over his mouth. He could barely breathe through the fabric of the mask. He flailed harder. Sherlock crushed his skull against the floor a second time. This time it wasn’t really possible to struggle as Sherlock bound his wrists with the other shoelace.

* * *

  
“Did you know,” Sherlock said, heaving and panting, “that I trained with Spartan? The military contractors? No? I was in Afghanistan. They taught me well. Another corrupt corporation. They nearly killed us, too. Now, I don’t think I’ll let AREVA do that to us. Do you? Don’t move. Keep quiet.” he spat. “The third time will burst your skull.”

Carre’s eyes were wide above the mask.

Sherlock was rummaging in his pockets. He found Carre’s wallet, some loose change, and a pen. His special pen. It had his name engraved on it. A present from his wife. Sherlock held the pen up close to his nose.

“You’ll never guess what I’m about to do with this,” Sherlock snarled.

* * *

Lestrade led a mob of journalists into the lobby of the AREVA Hospital for Nuclear Medicine and Research. They were really into the spirit of the thing now. This was, after all, the nation of the Revolution, the guillotine, of student riots. If Lestrade, the hero of the hour, wanted to take over the entire facility, they were with him all the way.

At the desk, he was nose to nose with the aristocratic, silver haired administrator who had met with Sherlock.

“Why can’t they be seen?”

“Their condition is – how can I say – classified. State security.”

“Won’t wash. Whatever’s wrong with them, put me in a HazMat suit, give me a radiation shield, I don’t care. I’ll pass them notes if I can’t talk to them. But I’m seeing them. And my friends here are going to wait until I come back with a report.”

The administrator maintained a glacial composure. He did not show any sign of even noticing the sweaty throng of excited journalists.

“Impossible, sir. I am aware of your recent service to France, indeed, the entire world is grateful, and permit me to add my humble thanks, and my wish that I could be of service to you, monsieur. But it is impossible. AREVA is a private facility, but we are a government contractor. Without proper authorization – ”

“Do you hear that, _mes amis_?” Lestrade shouted at the crowd. He beckoned to a dark-suited functionary that he had last seen at the side of President Sarkozy. “Will you call him for me?” Lestrade said loudly. “Call the President. Call him now. And ask him to direct this gentleman to open these doors. I want to see Mr. Holmes and Doctor Watson. Right now.”

The journalists added their demands, loudly clamouring. A call was made. The functionary held up his hand for silence. Then he handed his mobile to the administrator, who took it stiffly.

“ _Monsieur le President! Oui. No . . . Certainement. Mille excuses. Immediatement, Monsieur le President. Oui._ ”

He nodded gravely at Lestrade. “Please accept my apologies, Monsieur Lestrade. Follow me. This is a hospital, there are sick persons here. You will all please wait outside. You, Monsieur Lestrade, may bring three or four of your companions, but no interviews of any kind unless their doctor approves and of course, assuming the patients agree.”

* *

They all followed the administrator. They went to Sherlock’s room first, and found it empty.

“Strange,” the administrator said. “He must have been moved. Wait here,” he said.

“I don’t think so,” Lestrade said. “I’m staying until you take me to them. No tricks.” He was feeling a cold suspicion, and those were rarely wrong. “If I don’t see his face in five minutes I’m going to assume something is very off here.”

“Irregular – “ the administrator murmured. He pressed a button, but no one came. “They are under Dr. Carre’s care. Perhaps he is in his office. You may follow me.”

Eventually they came to a long corridor. There was a dark-suited security type sitting in a chair.

“What is the meaning of this? Where is Doctor Carre? Where is his patient Sherlock Holmes?” the administrator demanded frostily. The security man nodded toward a closed door at the opposite end of the corridor. “The doctor took him in there,” he said. “Perhaps twenty minutes ago.”

The administrator rapped sharply on the closed door. No one answered. He rattled the lock.

“Have you the key?” He called to the security man.

“No sir. I have to go to the station to retrieve it. I don’t usually go into treatment rooms,” he said defensively.

The hairs on the back of Lestrade’s neck were prickling and standing on end. He bent over to Plessy’s ear. “Give me your gun,” he hissed. Plessy’s eyes widened and he hesitated. “Now,” Lestrade said urgently. Plessy handed it over.

Before anyone could see what he was doing, Lestrade shot out the door handle and kicked in the door. Everyone started screaming. Lestrade rushed in.

Carre was bound on the floor. Sherlock was sitting on his chest, bending over him intently. There was a smell of vomit and fear in the room. Lestrade almost dropped the gun when he saw that both men were covered with blood.

“Sherlock!” Lestrade shouted.. Sherlock looked up.

Now he saw. Sherlock had a ragged gaping wound. A vertical tear, in the vein of his arm. Like a suicide, of which Lestrade had seen too many. The kind of cut that bled fast and hard.

Sherlock was holding Carre’s mouth open and forcing him to gulp down the gush of blood from the horrid wound. Blood drenched the man’s face and trickled down his neck.

The scene was like nothing so much as a vampire attacking a helpless victim.

“Get back Lestrade,” Sherlock whispered. “My blood is contaminated. Everyone out.”

Everyone clustering around the door shrieked and leaped back. Lestrade stayed put, poleaxed with shock.

“Sherlock, what – what’s happened to you – _My God –_ “

Sherlock ignored him. “Had enough?” he said to Carre, who gurgled and nodded weakly.

Sherlock lifted his hand from Carre’s lips.

“I have only one question for you now, Carre. Are you now absolutely certain – completely and absolutely certain – that AREVA has no antidote to polonium-210?”

Carre was spitting out as much blood as he could. It wasn’t much.

“No.”

“No?”

“No, I mean, yes. There is an antidote. Experimental.”

Sherlock staggered up, bent over, fought and lost another wave of nausea. When he was finished, he started plucking at Carre’s bonds.

“Take me to your laboratory, Doctor Carre.”

Sherlock swayed a little and then realized, too late, that he was still bleeding copiously from the gash in his arm. He looked at it, almost puzzled.

“Get John,” he said to Lestrade as his eyes rolled up in his head and he went down.

  
To be continued . . .

**Listen to More:[More](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y4mNiNhT4-o)**

  



	15. Scorched Earth

  
_You can tell_

 _When you feel love._

 _And I can tell_

 _That there is something in your eye._

 _It’s a tear,_

 _falling down._

  
 _I can tell_

 _That you are in love._

 _And I know_

 _What that little drop is in your eye._

 _It’s a tear of happiness_

 _No more fear or loneliness._

  
Lyrics to Feel Alive, all rights reserved Benassi Brothers

　

　

  
In an abandoned brewery on the outskirts of London, a portable lantern cast a lonely pool of yellow light in a vast, dank underground barrel rooms.

A single figure sat slumped in the light. He hiccuped a little; the worst of the retching seemed to be over. A black-gloved hand tossed him a bottle of water.

"Drink more. Anti-nausea agent. It will help for a little while. Then– it won’t matter," said a voice from the darkness. Singh drank.

Singh knew that voice. This was not the rough voice of the Aguirre’s henchman, the man who spoke Euskara. The man who had done the unthinkable and opened the plutonium case. No, it was impossible.

Utterly impossible.

But then the tall figure was stepping into the light. He pulled off his silicone mask, the black moustache, removed the dark contact lenses. In his black-gloved hands was a gun with a long silencer.

Singh gave a hopeless groan. He wasn’t in the hands of his Day of Wrath confederates, after all. These men did not belong to Aguirre.

This was, if such a thing were possible, worse.

"Holmes," he said dully.

His mind was sluggish but even so, he perfectly comprehended that Mycroft Holmes’ possession of the plutonium core, intercepting him at Ascot, could only mean that their plans were foiled.

　

* * *

Moments before, Singh was possessed of the satisfaction that even in the face of death – Aguirre, like the viper that he was, betraying even him: his most important, his most highly placed confederate – the Day of Wrath would be fulfilled; and with it, his vengeance would be complete. Thus rendering death sweet.

"I have a message for you," Mycroft said. He stepped forward and handed Singh a small object. His hands were not bound. He reached out to take it. It was a Roman coin. He did not have to read the inscription, but his finger ran over it just the same.

DIES IRAE. The Day of Wrath.

"From a Certain Person," Mycroft continued, "whom, I’m sure you can appreciate, can never overlook your – what is the word – some might say, betrayal – I would say, folly."

Singh flushed with humiliation. Mycroft, of course, was striking were it would cause the most pain.

"What message?"

" _Et tu, Brute?"_

"Ha. Always the ironist, Holmes. Apparently you have our ‘knife.’ Caesar won’t be struck down after all. They say justice is blind. She must be."

"Justice! Thank you for coming to the point so quickly. I wish you to explain to me -- and please be brief, you don’t really have a great deal of time – how you feel that this – plot – serves justice. Oh, we understand, now, the means: the canisters, the plutonium core, the MOX shipment – yes, even that, we’ve just learned! Don’t look so surprised. For the last I cannot claim credit. But you know how clever my little brother is."

Singh shook his head. "Why should I give you the satisfaction."

"Satisfaction! This is a very deep betrayal of your country, Singh. I suppose you know you are the greatest traitor since Philby. If you had succeeded, you would have caused far more deaths than the Cambridge Five ever did. You have a few hours left before the radiation damage to your organs causes your death. A very painful one, I’m sure you know. This is an opportunity for you to make your manifesto. I’m listening. And of course, the cameras are running."

Singh shook his head in the negative. Mycroft sighed. He pulled out his mobile and showed Singh a photograph.

It was a serious-looking blonde woman, speaking at a conference.

"She goes first," Mycroft said.

Singh’s head sank.

Mycroft showed him the second photograph.

Two young children, a boy and a girl, aged perhaps five and seven; the boy fair like his mother, the girl darker, like her father, but with her mother’s blue eyes.

"They go next. After they watch what happens to their mother," Mycroft said calmly.

Singh made an effort to be stoic. "I do not believe you. You wouldn’t do it, Holmes."

"Really, Sammy, I thought you knew me better. Of course _I_ wouldn’t. Do you know who those men are? The ones that brought us from Ascot?"

Singh hadn’t really thought about it. But he remembered the names, now: Nikolai. Pashi.

"No," he said.

"Chechens. That’s right! They owe me a favor. The sort of favor that I don’t mind admitting to you I prefer – how shall I put it – to leave to the professionals."

"It’s a trick."

"You don’t really have much time left to find out, do you?"

* * *

Singh realized he was feeling very dizzy, and the room was starting to spin. He might faint. The radiation must be hitting him harder now. The core had been within eight feet of him when Mycroft opened the case. He knew what that meant.

Mycroft sighed. "Very well. You want proof. I understand that. Pay attention, please."

Mycroft held up his mobile. Singh heard his wife’s voice, and then his children’s. He held up his hand.

"Turn it off. Stop. Tell them to stop. You’ll find out most of it anyway now whether I tell you or not. If they stop, I’ll talk. Give me your word, Holmes."

"I give you my word that if you tell me the truth, your family will not be harmed. My word, unlike yours, means something."

"I know it," Singh said bitterly. "I’m counting on you, Holmes."

Mycroft spoke into the mobile in Chechen.

"Let me speak to her, Holmes. Just a word or two. And then I’ll tell you."

Mycroft held up the mobile to Singh’s lips. "Darling, Helen, are you all right now? Are the children?"

 _"Yes, Sammy."_

"You’ll find out, later, what’s happened. You’ll understand, I hope. I love you and the children. Take good care of them. Goodbye, Helen."

 _"Goodbye, Sammy."_

Mycroft took the mobile away and put it in his pocket.

"You mentioned justice, I believe. Start there. Realize of course that all traitors, all terrorists, think their cause is just. And so I already knew you would bring justice into the story: _‘Revenge is an act of passion; vengeance of justice. Injuries are revenged; crimes are avenged.’_ Samuel Johnson. What, precisely, are the crimes you believe you are avenging?"

"It all starts," Singh said, "With your grandfather."

Of any words he had ever expected to fall from Singh’s lips at this very moment, these were, possibly, the very last.

* * *

"My grandfather?"

"You know my file," Singh said.

"You emigrated from Borneo when you were twelve. With your mother. You became a British subject, naturally. Your innate abilities permitted you to make up for your early upbringing, which I understand to have been - forgive me - backward in the extreme. Scholarship to Oxford, where you took firsts in South Asian languages and history. Tapped by MI6 quite early. Merely average in field work, but a brilliant administrator. Your name was brought forward as a coordinator for the Royal Protection Command. And so I completely comprehend how it was that you were in a position to plan to subject the young Royals to radioactive contamination at Ascot. But why?"

"That is the end of the story. I want to start at the beginning. And the beginning starts with your grandfather. Captain Reginald St. John Holmes. He was a junior officer attached to Churchill’s Chiefs of Staff - specifically under General William Slim."

"I am well acquainted with my family history," Mycroft said sternly.

"Perhaps you know, then, that is was your grandfather’s memorandum suggesting that Borneo be destroyed as a scorched earth tactic that swayed Churchill’s chiefs of staff and ultimately, Churchill himself. And so, Borneo was allowed to fall."

Mycroft swallowed. He had been aware of it. He had read his grandfather’s diaries. Scorched earth tactics were banned by the Geneva Convention, but possessed a history of successful employment in battles as varied as the destruction of Carthage by Rome; William the Conqueror’s subjugation of the North of England; Russians against Napoleon’s Grand Army; Stalin against the Germans.

A bitter but effective tactic of last resort.

　

* * *

"This is not, I would think, the time to debate England’s tactics in the Pacific Theatre," Mycroft said drily.

"But it is! My grandfather was the Assistant Chief of Police for North Borneo. He was a Sikh; you know the British liked to import Sikhs from India as enforcers in their little colonial backwaters. My grandfather made a home in Borneo, he had status, position. He had a beautiful home, a wife, a household. A man of respect. Do you know there were just seventy British altogether in Sandakan at the start of the war? Everything else was run by the "natives." Of which, evidently, my grandfather was considered one. The British abandoned Sandakan, they burned everything, and let the people starve, or be slaughtered by the Japanese."

"In war, people die. British troops died in Borneo; Australians, too."

"Too little, too late. Do you want to know how my grandfather died?"

Mycroft cursed his lack of thoroughness. He was acquainted with Singh’s own story, and a little of that of his parents’ stories. Mycroft had only worked with Singh for the past four years, and while they were sometime rivals, their respective spheres of influence were very different. They had little in common personally; Singh was a staid family man, while Mycroft’s personal life, secretive and conducted on occasion in foreign cities, was very private indeed. It had never been of any importance, Mycroft had thought, for him to know more about Singh. What a mistake.

"We seem to be getting rather far afield from your plot to murder most of the Royal Family. Let alone attacking hundreds of civilians with the canisters, and whatever destruction you could have accomplished with that MOX cargo."

"What happened to it? The MOX ship. You may as well tell me."

"My dear fellow, what do you suppose we have nuclear submarines for? And nuclear salvage teams. The ship is beneath the waves by now."

"You sacrificed the entire crew, then? They weren’t all ours, you know."

"They are not your concern. Please continue. You were on the point of telling me how your grandfather died."

"Yes. You will have heard of the Sandakan Death Marches."

Mycroft nodded to indicate that he had.

"My grandfather – Ranjit Singh – died the mud. In the jungle. North Borneo. The stock of a Japanese rifle cracked open his skull and they slit his throat with a bayonet. They didn’t consider it worth the ammunition to just shoot him, you see. He never got to even hold my father in his arms. My grandmother was pregnant when she left Sandakan, the day the Japanese landed: my father was born in a mountain village. I was born there, too. I cannot possibly make you understand how – primitive, I suppose you would say — the conditions were there. Still are. You, Holmes, grew up on a rather grand estate in Kent."

"Yes. The Japanese officers responsible for the death marches were held responsible, there were war crimes trials, I recall."

"Trials! A temporary humiliation, and then a merciful death by hanging. If my grandfather had not been murdered on the death march trail, he would shortly have died of starvation. They said his body may have weighed as little as ninety pounds, at his death. Ranjit Singh was a large, imposing man before the war. He was skin and bone when he died."

"Most regrettable. And yet, that would again seem to be the fault of the Japanese."

"No, of the British. For abandoning Borneo when it should have been defended. Or the should have given the "natives" the means of defending themselves. There were only twenty guns left to the civilians in Sandakan when the Japanese landed. They were expendable."

"I find it difficult to believe, tragic though your grandfather’s story is, that you conceived a desire to snuff out the entire Royal Family as a consequence."

"Do you? The arrogance. The arrogance of Empire. It is that arrogance must be punished. I was not born in England, Holmes. Borneo is my homeland. My entire life would have had a very different outcome if Borneo had been defended, if my grandfather had not died. I would have been born to wealth, to privilege. Like you. I hate you; I hate all of your kind. Sandakan had a post-war boom that would have brought our family from prosperity to wealth and power. If such a thing can be certain, it would have been certain, then. I don’t believe a person such as yourself, raised under such privileged circumstances, a real son of the Empire, could ever know what it is like to be raised as I was. I am not ashamed of my village. But the term Third World does not really give a picture of how . . . poverty-stricken it is."

"I should think that England has done very well by you – Oxford, MI6, you have been promoted over and over, given positions of trust. A grave mistake, obviously. But you have more to say, I see."

* * *

"You are right. I haven’t finished my story. You know that MI6 thinks you are the traitor, Holmes. You and Detective Inspector Lestrade."

"Yes. That was your doing, obviously. That will be remedied very shortly. I suppose this . . .grudge against my grandfather prompted you to target me. I was not just a target of convenience. But -" Here Mycroft displayed the first visible anger – "you should not have involved Lestrade."

"Oh, but it was most important. I tried to have him killed. You know that. But did you know it was also me that had him abducted? In St-Jean-de-Luz? I had word passed to Elorza’s men that ‘Guy Lamont’ was spying for the French police. I didn’t expect him to walk away from that one!"

Mycroft recalled lifting Lestrade, battered and bleeding, from the filthy floor of the warehouse in St.-Jean-de-Luz, bone fragments piercing his torn skin. It would be very, very easy to put an end to this; he had his gun, he had his bare hands. It would be the work of a moment. But that would be too easy.

If nothing else, Singh would be made to suffer.

"Don’t speak of him. Don’t speak his name. Tell me why this is so personal. I can see you were trying to hurt me. Lestrade was . . . your instrument. You knew it would hurt me. I can’t believe this is down to my grandfather."

"It isn’t. No, it is more personal, much more personal than that. Your grandfather was what I believe used to be called an ‘Orientalist.’ A peculiarly imperialist and colonialist outlook upon Asia and the Middle East. And your father, Lord Anthony Holmes, learned at his knee, I imagine."

"Yes." Mycroft was starting to anticipate what was coming. "And so. You met my father."

"I met your father. In Borneo."

"Do you know what happened to him?" Mycroft and Sherlock’s father, the preeminent enthnobotanist, had disappeared on an expedition to Borneo when Sherlock was just nine years old.

"I do. Nothing could induce me to tell you. Not now."

Singh grinned, horribly, the face of a man about to face an executioner. "I am feeling very unwell, Holmes. I don’t have much time left. You’ve beaten us. We failed. But I can still do this. I am going to my grave now. And I know what happened to your father. And you will never, ever learn what I know."

Mycroft was speechless. The mention of his father, as always, brought back such painful memories that he was sorely pressed to maintain any sort of composure. But he could not give Singh the satisfaction of seeing him suffer, even for this. His father, and his grandfather, deserved his utmost. And so his face remained a frozen and haughty mask.

"Very well," Mycroft said. "Turn off the cameras," he called out.

* * *

Singh looked afraid now.

"I have something to show you, Singh," Mycroft said. He reached behind him and brought out the plutonium case. Singh looked at it with fascination and repulsion.

"You’re mad, put it down," Singh said.

"Why? Surely you’re not concerned for me. And you’ve already received a fatal dose."

Singh laughed, then. "It’s instinct, I suppose."

Mycroft opened the case. Singh gasped. Mycroft pulled out the dull lead-colored sphere. And flung it at Singh, who screamed.

The ball bounced harmlessly off of Singh’s chest and rolled off into a corner.

Mycroft reached into the case and switched off the little blue light hidden in the bottom.

"What is this?" Singh gasped, hyperventilating now, faced with an alteration in reality that his mind could not grasp.

"What this is, Singh, is that this is not your plutonium core. You haven’t been subjected to radiation poisoning. You aren’t dying. I gave you a very mild poison and a hallucinogenic, to make you think you were ill. Nothing that will cause you more than a headache by tomorrow.

"And I’ve done nothing to your wife and children. You let your imagination run away with you, Singh.  That was from a recording of an ordinary conversation between you and your wife. Think, what did she actually say? And the photos, just part of your file. Nothing sinister.

"And so, Singh, you had better come to grips with the fact that you’re going to see tomorrow. You’re going to live a very, very long time. And with the video we just made, you’re going to be jailed for treason for the rest of your life. After a very long and tedious trial.

"And at some point, you’re going to want to talk to me about my father, after all.  I can wait."

* * *

Mycroft thought that as many men as he had ever killed (and he knew the precise number, and it was rather large), he had never seen a man’s face show such devastation, such shock.

Mycroft would far preferred to have shot the Singh here and now; even better, to have broken his neck for the satisfaction of feeling it snap under his hands as recompense for his having dared to harm Greg.

But as he left France for Dover, he had realised that he had no alternative but to bring Singh to justice. Real justice. The kind of justice that Greg knew, that Greg served, and respected, and helped to make happen in the performance of his ordinary duties with the Yard, every day. And that sort of justice demanded evidence, a trial; a right to defense by the accused, the vote of a jury, and a legal sentence handed down by a judge in an open court of law.

If he didn’t do this, he would not be able to face Lestrade, ever.

And while he had no idea if he ever really would have that chance, he knew he had to stay innocent of at least this, if nothing else. Singh’s story had made it much more difficult for Mycroft to hold to this. But he had made his resolution, and was determined to keep it.

The past was past, the dead, even his own father, were gone. Greg was, thank God, alive. Mycroft allowed himself a moment to hope that perhaps, Lestrade would be proud of what he had done today. He astonished himself by finding that his vision was blurring and a single burning tear dropped from his eye.  He dashed it away and forced himself to return to his iron composure.

The Day of Wrath was over.

* * *

　

Mycroft called out: "Now, if you please," and a dozen officers burst into the room, headed by a Crown Prosecutor and Deputy Assistant Commissioner Stuart Osborne of the Counter-Terrorism Command of the Metropolitan Police Service. Singh was cuffed, and Osborne read from prepared charges:

 _"Sanjay Singh: I arrest you on the suspicion of high treason, and for conspiring to commit acts of terrorism, for conspiracy to commit murder against Mycroft Holmes, and for conspiracy to commit murder against Gregory Lestrade. You do not have to say anything unless you wish to do so, but I must warn you that if you fail to mention any fact which you rely on in your defence in court, your failure to take this opportunity to mention it may be treated in court as supporting any relevant evidence against you. If you do wish to say anything, what you say may be given in evidence._ "

To be continued _. . ._

　

 **Listen to Feel Alive:[Feel Alive](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QtGGvD2QscM)**

 **  
Note:  The Holmes brothers' father, Lord Anthony Holmes', disappearance in Borneo when Sherlock was a child was the subject of Chapter Three of my fic _The Irresistibility of Orbits, Part Two: The Forgetting of Things Past_ , Number 6 of the _Indestrutcible_ series.**


	16. Siberia

_Yellow diamonds in the light,_  
And we’re standing side by side -  
As your shadow crosses mine  
What it takes to come alive

 _We found love in a hopeless place_  
  
Shine a light through an open door,  
Love and life  
I will divide  
Turn away, cause I need you more  


_It’s the way I’m feeling, I just can’t deny  
But I’ve gotta let it go_

_We found love in a hopeless place_  
  
 **We Found Love, all rights reserved Calvin Harris/Rhianna**  
  
  
  
  
Mycroft received the summons to MI6 headquarters while still at the scene of Singh’s arrest. Therefore he did not stop at his townhouse in St. John’s Wood, but went directly to the SIS building at Vauxhall Cross, also known as Legoland. He was dissheveled and, he had to admit, exhausted, neither of which conditions he ever permitted himself to be seen in under any circumstances. But he found that he really didn’t care.

This time his superior did not conduct the interview via videoconference. No, it seemed that all of the powers of MI6, and of agencies more secret than MI6, wanted in on the briefing. There were a dozen intelligence officers of the highest ranking seated around the glass conference table.

Mycroft squared his shoulders and prepared for battle.

No time was wasted before the first shot was fired.

* * *

"Holmes. You realize, of course, that your handling of Singh was profoundly . . . disappointing to us." This from a short, portly man with thick glasses and a renowned temper that Mycroft recognized as his superior’s superior: in fact, the current Chief of MI6, known, as all chiefs are, by the single initial "C": Sir Gordon Quaintance.

"I realise nothing of the kind." Mycroft had no intention of being pillioried. Even in secret. Even by C.

"We’re overlooking the business with the Chechens. Damned clever of you, that. We admit it, well played. But, damn it, Holmes, you should have brought him to us. Why involve the Met? Everything so – public. It will go on for years, now: the journalists, the trials, the questions. This could have been handled with delicacy – " Quaintance’s famous temper was on the rise, and he actually pounded the table for emphasis, incongruously. The lesser eminences around the conference table conspicuously overlooked this as though it were simply not happening.

"Please don’t obfuscate. Sir. I believe you mean secrecy."

"The entire affair should have been handled internally. Nobody knows this better than you, Holmes. A traitor; plutonium; MOX shipments. Everything could have been – contained. The business with the canisters and Aguirre, your Detective Inspector Lestrade, that was all quite enough for the public. But no. You – and your brother – together have brought this all out. People are terrified."

Quaintance gestured and someone queued up a muted video montage of news clips of the Day of Wrath - bombings, the arrests of would-be poisoners bearing the deadly canisters, the unconfirmed but rampant rumours of the MOX shipment having been hijacked and sunk by either the British or French navy (in fact, a British nuclear submarine), Singh’s arrest. And many of the clips featured Lestrade himself, who remained at the very forefront of international news. Mycroft’s own name had been carefully kept out of the press by his superiors. Vague stories of a wide-ranging joint sting operation between the Yard, MI5 and MI6 had been put about.

"That would appear to be as it should be," Mycroft said stiffly, looking away from the screen.

"Who appointed you to decide what the public should know? Who appointed you to clean house?  You’ve never been one for leaking secrets before now, Holmes. Perhaps Singh is right on one point. Are you quite clear on your loyalties, Holmes?"

Mycroft laughed. "Don’t be absurd. There are secrets, and there are secrets. This was a terror plot that possibly equaled 9/11 and 7/7 together. No one has the right to keep these risks from the public. The only reason that the Day of Wrath group was able to arm themselves so – lavishly – was that we failed to be sufficiently vigilant. I should think that we had better start working a great deal harder on nuclear waste security, and a very great deal harder on our intelligence on black market movements of radioactive materials – of all kinds. Sir."

"Don’t presume to lecture us, Holmes. You don’t know all of the considerations – "

"I’m sure I can imagine them. Have you any questions of me, sir, or is this simply to be a schoolboy whipping?"

"You’ll be debriefed tonight. And despite your spectacular breach of protocol in the Singh matter, we happen to quite agree with you that it is absolutely vital that we ramp up our intelligence efforts in respect to black market movement of radioactive materials. You have anticipated us. You shall remain on 00 status. You are well up on your Russian and Chechen, and have your contacts still in place, obviously.

"After debriefing, report to Allardyce here. You have a new assignment."

* * *

The official line of the French authorities and of AREVA spokespersons was that Doctor Carre was insane.

Deemed conveniently unfit to face charges of attempted murder of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, Carre was confined to a secure mental hospital to await his possible return to sanity.

No one expected this to come quickly.

Sherlock was of the private opinion that Dr. Carre was very sane indeed.

A team of the world’s top specialists in radiobiology were flown to France to treat Sherlock and John for radiation poisoning. The experimental regimen developed in AREVA’s lab was approved as a treatment for John and Sherlock only after being verified as the work of scientists completely independent of Carre. A triple cocktail of 5-Androstenediol (developed for the Pentagon), a genetically altered bacterial protein, and a novel chelating agent was administered.

The speed with which the cocktail assisted in their resistance, healing, and the elimination of polonium-210 and in John’s case, cesium-137 from their bodies was deemed nothing less than miraculous.

As was the timing of Sherlock and John’s dramatic rescue. In a few more hours they would have suffered far more damage.

Death.

But certain fundamentals were unavoidable. Polonium-210 and Cesium-137 are eliminated from the body through bodily fluids, as Sherlock well knew when he poured his own blood down Carre’s throat; also saliva and perspiration. No one trusted Sherlock after his desperate act of gouging open his own wrist. Sherlock and John were kept isolated from bodily contact with any of their medical team, who wore special shielded suits.

This was quite tolerable.

The prohibition of bodily contact with one another was excruciating. They were permitted to communicate only by webcam out of an abundance of caution.

* * *

Lestrade visited them daily, although he also was limited to webcam and not permitted to enter their rooms. He stayed as long as he was allowed, patiently entertaining them with tidbits of gossip from the outside world. They played online poker together incessantly. John was a terrible player and, to Lestrade’s surprise, a very sore loser but was also the most keen to play, always optimistic he would turn his luck around. Sherlock failed to understand Lestrade’s hints that he might, once or twice, just let up a little and let John win. Sherlock never lost.

But none of this sufficed to fully occupy Sherlock’s brain once he was feeling better, and Sherlock became very surly indeed at their long confinement.

Lestrade found a means of distracting him that he commenced with some trepidation. Sherlock was simultaneously fidgeting and bombarding John with messages on his laptop, the responses to which generally caused his lip to curl up with private amusement. However, there were long stretches of the day and night when John was not available to entertain Sherlock in this fashion due to the constant bustle of tests, examinations, consultations, meals and other indignities that punctuate hospital life everywhere.

Sherlock’s frustration and excruciated boredom finally became truly awful to behold. Lestrade exhausted his fund of anecdotes that held any scrap of interest. He steeled himself and broached a topic that he had never had the nerve to raise at any time during his acquaintance with the consulting detective:

"Tell me something about where you grew up, Sherlock. As a child."

* * *

"A new assignment?" Mycroft kept his voice smooth and steady, even unconcerned.

"Russia."  
  
"Russia! Are you certain you don't mean --  _Siberia_?" Mycroft gave a short laugh.  
  
"Moscow," C said brusquely. "Don't be surprised, Holmes.  And that is only where we wish to start.  Leaving aside what's been said, we all agree that under the circumstances, you’ve done remarkable work here. There is a consensus that you have your finger on the pulse of this scenario, so to speak. We don’t intend to waste this opportunity just because you’ve been – rash. But this time, no going rogue. You shall do as you are bid. I hope that is understood."

If this blow was unexpected, he was well schooled in concealing his deepest feelings from everyone, especially himself.

"I understand," Mycroft said coolly.

* * *

Sherlock turned a basilisk eye on Lestrade. Lestrade looked back steadily. Once Sherlock realised that Lestrade was not thwarted by his display of pique, Sherlock drew breath and began.

"We - Mycroft and I – were raised in Kent. My father’s family’s home. Not an ancestral manse. I believe my grandfather bought it before the war. My father was not an hereditary lord; you knew that, I suppose. He was created a life peer. For achievement in science. Ethnobotany."

"What happened – to the house?" He really wanted to ask about their father; recalling Mycroft’s sadness in the villa at St-Jean-de-Luz.

"Oh, Mummy has a life estate: after that, it goes to Mycroft, I suppose. I never bothered much about Kent once I went to uni. Very dull. I much preferred Riddleston Hall as a child. Still do. I suppose _you_ must be rather attached to Riddleston Hall now, as well, Lestrade," Sherlock said slyly.

Lestrade put it down to Sherlock’s extraordinary boredom that he would find it in any way amusing to tease him about his recent visit to Riddleston Hall. It was there that Mycroft had made a very straightforward and yet obviously terrifying declaration of his long-hidden feelings for Lestrade, taking Lestrade by surprise.

But not, apparently, Sherlock, who observed all.

Lestrade did not consider his emotional life, such as it was, an area to be either buried or deleted in the Holmesian fashion. He found himself smiling a little ruefully, despite his present pain. Mycroft was refusing to return his calls. But he, in turn, refused to read anything into this, and remained hopeful. He imagined that Mycroft had a great many demands upon him at the moment. It was impossible that everything they felt for each other had been so fleeting, fanned by their dramatic and harrowing adventures.

Sherlock was giving him a sidelong ironical look under his eyelashes, obviously trying to deflect the conversation away from himself.

"As it happens, I am," Lestrade said. "Very much. Is that all right with you, Sherlock?"

Sherlock made an elaborate show of looking indifferent and scowling simultaneously. "Yes.  Of course.  Do as you like – but I insist on alternate weekends where Mycroft is concerned, if you please, Lestrade."

Lestrade was feeling daring. After taking on terrorists, Sherlock’s prickly temper wasn’t so daunting, after all.

"Why is that, Sherlock? I don’t think Mycroft feels the same. Do you know he keeps a family portrait of you and he as children, at his bedside?" May as well go all in, he figured. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

Sherlock looked uncomfortable. "I know the picture," he said vaguely.

"Why were you pulling away? In that picture?" In the picture, Sherlock, aged about nine, was pulling away, his figure blurred. Mycroft, looking close to eighteen, was trying to hold him still, pulling him back. Their mother and father, Anthony and Eugenia Holmes, stood proudly behind them.

"It was . . . my experiment. I didn’t want to stop for a portrait. It was about to explode. I wanted to save it," Sherlock said. But the memory was not a happy one. He did not smile.

There was a silence. Lestrade began to regret bringing it up, after all. But then Sherlock took a deep breath and continued, his voice tight.

"I have the same portrait, you know. It’s the last one. Of us all together. My father left the next day. For that expedition. To Borneo. He . . . .never came back."

"Sherlock —"

"I’m rather tired, Lestrade. Would you mind terribly checking on John." Sherlock turned the webcam off. Seated outside the window, Lestrade saw him turn his face to the wall.

* * *

Later that night, well after midnight, John awoke to the sensation of someone with bony elbows and long legs climbing into bed with him. This could only be Sherlock, and for a moment he believed they were somehow transported to 221b.

But a moment's glance told him he was still confined to his hospital room. His heart pounded in shock.

"Sherlock," he hissed. What are you thinking-- we aren't clear yet! We aren't supposed to-- get out of here, now." Sherlock was dragging the covers up and climbing in underneath. John swore.

"What happened to the alarms?"

"Jammed," Sherlock whispered against his ear. "And they've been lying to us, we've been clear for the past three days. I found out two days ago. Two whole days, I waited, John. It's perfectly safe."

"And you know this because-"

"I hacked the system when we first came here, John, and I've had a great deal of time to perfect my technique. There's no doubt at all – it's fine, John, it's all right now. Don't send me away.  Please."

"How did you get in here without them seeing you?"

"Stop talking immediately, John," Sherlock whispered, nuzzling his warm neck, and hearing his greedy and yet contented sigh was more than John could withstand; hell, he'd never been able to withstand it. Sherlock's hands were lightly and inquisitively caressing the skin of his arms, his chest, tracing his scar, touching his lips with his fingertips. It wasn't in any direct way sexual, which didn't prevent John from getting instantly hard. But he ignored it, and so did Sherlock: this wasn't what this was. They were alive; they weren't going to die; they were allowed this again, the privilege to touch.  
  
John touched the freshly healed wound on Sherlock's wrist, the horrible gouge from Carre's pen, and brought it to his own lips. "You're so-- so. . ."

Sherlock stopped whatever he might have said then with a gentle brush of his lips, just hovering on his own, not pressing in. Sherlock held there, breathing in, staring down at John intently, drinking in the color of his eyes, his eyelashes, the color and texture of skin, creases and rumples from the Afghan sun, from worry, worry about him.

"I meant what I said, John," he breathed against the corner of his mouth. John closed his eyes, everything electric, on fire after so long.

"Hmmmm. Stop talking immediately, Sherlock," he said, smiling and then taking his lips with his own.

"You don't want to stop this," Sherlock whispered when they came up for breath.

"Shhhhh.". John wanted those lips to stop moving altogether unless they were kissing his. He pulled Sherlock down to him, firmly, but Sherlock whispered against his lips, "John, I need to say it." John's eyes opened and they looked at each other, then.

John caressed his cheek. "Then say it, love."

"I love you, John," he said, over and over, feeling the words on his tongue, exotic and intoxicating. Finally John silenced him with another kiss.

"It's all right now. We're going to be all right. You'll have plenty of chances to tell me. It's not so hard, is it?" Sherlock kissed him until they were both dizzy.

It was hard; very hard, but that didn't matter anymore, and he couldn't remember, now, why he had ever thought that it did.

* * *

"One final thing," Allardyce said with an approving glance from C. The dramatic intonation warned Mycroft that what was coming was not going to be pleasant to hear.  
  
"There is the matter of Detective Inspector Lestrade."

"I shall have to insist that you refrain from mentioning his name," Mycroft said.

Even though he had feared this, the sick shock delivered when Lestrade’s name was mentioned here in this place, when it came, was almost paralyzing. "Everything in this affair was done under my own personal authority. Lestrade has done nothing that was not under my express direction. I take full responsibility. But I won’t hear a single word against Detective Inspector Lestrade."

"You misunderstand, Holmes," Allardyce, a suave veteran of post-Cold War operations, was generally posted in Brussels and Munich and posed as a diplomatic attache. He was not making any particular effort to be diplomatic here. "Don’t be dense. We happen to feel that Lestrade acquitted himself well. Quite well indeed. Scotland Yard - well, he’s almost a civilian. But he’s made of strong stuff, that’s clear. Got out of some very tight spots. Quite the body count. Yes. And so we’d like you to bring him over. We can use him: He’s quite a hit in France, made some useful connections. Quite cozy with Sarkozy. Even _Madame_ Sarkozy," he leered.

Mycroft was ready to rip this man’s throat out. "You will withdraw that remark, Allardyce." He said, low and vicious. Allardyce stepped back.

"I beg your pardon, Holmes. Didn’t quite realize – anyway. We thought you’d be. . . pleased. We aren’t blind, Holmes."

"I decline. I will never permit him to be recruited."

"Probably you should give him that choice himself. But if that’s your position, Holmes, we have another order for you. If we don’t bring him into the fold, you must sever that tie. Permanently. We feel strongly that you are far better off . . .playing with your own kind. Affairs with civilians always create unacceptable risks. You know this, Holmes. You’ve never given us cause for concern before – and that’s the way we want to keep it."

"My private life is no concern of yours. You either trust me, or you do not."

"After the Singh affair, trust is very hard to come by. And you have no ‘private life,’Holmes. Whereever did you get that quaint notion! Now wake up.  And report for debriefing at 0100."

* * *

The next day, John and Sherlock were released. Arrangements had been made for them to be flown directly back to London, courtesy of their erstwhile masters at MI6. Sherlock politely refused and made gestures to John to silence his objections. John observed him scanning his mobile.

"What are you doing, Sherlock," he asked impatiently. "Let’s take the ferry to Dover, then, if you don’t want to fly."

"Someone we need to see," Sherlock said abstractedly.

"No – Sherlock, no. Back to London. Now."

"It will take a day, less than a day. London can wait that long," Sherlock implored. John was happy enough to see the life back in his face, and if it wasn’t all down to his newfound access to his more tender feelings, well, John understood that. He hoped never to see that change.

"Tell me where, then," he sighed.

"Bayonne, you remember, John: That little coin shop."

* * *

As Mycroft left the conference, he checked his mobile. He had several messages from Greg, who was still in France. He took the time in the car to listen to them.

He played them several times without recognizing that he was really just wanting the sound of his voice. He thought he could read everything in it: anger, fear, and frustration. Mycroft replayed, over and over, the scene at the mine tunnel in Willencourt.

Sending Greg down into hell.

Unable to imagine what he could say,  now, Mycroft limited himself to a terse text that he was safe in London.

He stared at the little keyboard for a long time, hesitating, but finally put the mobile carefully away in his pocket.  
  
And turned it off.

_To be continued . . ._

 

**listen to We Found Love:[Here](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GchEVSx9XEA)**

back:[ **Four:Scorched Earth**](http://ghislainem70.livejournal.com/43258.html)


	17. La Vie en Rose

Hold me close and hold me fast  
The magic spell you cast  
This is la vie en rose  
When you kiss me heaven sighs  
And though I close my eyes  
I see la vie en rose.  
  
  
Lyrics to La Vie en Rose, David Mack, Louis Armstrong.

 

"Two sugars, thank you,"  Mycroft said.  He had stopped at the Diogenes Club and made himself presentable, not so well as he could at his house in St. John's Wood, but he hoped any minor defects would be forgiven. Under the circumstances.  
  
The tea was poured out impeccably.  His favorite-- Oolong.  He knew there was a book where records of guest's preferences were diligently maintained. He waited, of course, until his hostess had taken up her own cup.  
  
"Something stronger, Mr Holmes?"  
  
"I wouldn't dream of --"  
  
"Really, Mr Holmes.  I can still see well enough when a man needs a drink."  
  
Brandy was brought forth with alacrity.  
  
"Forgive me for noticing, Ma'am, but these are new, I see.  William Yeoward?" Mycroft admired the crystal decanter and snifter.  
  
"Quite.  He is very talented.  Prince Charles has granted him a Royal Warrant."  
  
Mycroft took a bit of the brandy, and murmured his appreciation.  It went down smoothly.  She was right, he did need a drink.  
  
The Queen, in his experience, was always right.  
  
* * *  
  
"I cannot express how grateful I am, Ma'am, that you condescended to see me at such short notice and at this hour."  
  
"I don't sleep like I used to, Mr Holmes.  And why ever else do you suppose I gave you that telephone number?  You were quite right.  I should have called on you tomorrow in any event.  I received your video."  
  
"I hoped you would, Ma'am.  I hoped no one would try to -- intercept it."  
  
They sipped.  A tray of biscuits was nearby and she saw him looking at them.  
  
"Do take one.  When did you ever get so very thin, Mr Holmes?  You are starting to resemble your reckless brother.  You must take better care of yourself, for our sakes.  And what would Lady Holmes say. How is your dear mother?"  
  
"Very well, Ma'am, thank you.  I don't pretend that this affair has not caused her some -- concern.  You are too kind to worry about my welfare, Ma'am.  Perhaps just one."  
  
Mycroft munched a biscuit.  "His Highness Prince Charles does so very well with these," he said.   Duchy Originals were always his favorite biscuits.  Proceeds benefitted the Duchy of Cornwall's charitable efforts.  
  
"How many times in the past have I wished to do something to express our appreciation to you, and to your brother.  You have never permitted me that pleasure.  But this time, your actions, Mr Holmes, have single-handedly preserved the succession to the throne and the lives of nearly all of our family who matter, the young Windsors, my grandsons, my granddaughters."  
  
"Not singlehandedly, Ma'am."  
  
"Don't be modest.  Your video with Singh at Ascot frightened me very much.  If you had not been there--well, our gratitude knows no bounds.  Is there anything we can do for you?"  
  
Her piercing gaze told Mycroft that she was perfectly aware of the orders that had been handed down by the Chief of MI6 late last night.  
  
"He called my father immediately he learned of it," she added, somewhat distantly.  
  
"'I beg your pardon, Ma'am?"  
  
"Churchill.  The sinking of the _Repulse_ and the _Prince of Wales_.  The Captain of the _Prince of Wales_ chose to go down with the ship.  He could easy have been saved.  He refused.  It broke our hearts not to be in a position to defend Borneo, you know.  If only the Americans--  but it was too late.  We remember that night very well.  But --- it was long ago."  
  
"Not to Singh."  
  
"This business about your father-- is it true?"  
  
"Pray don't trouble yourself, Ma'am.  Likely he was lying.  No one has ever found the slightest trace of what happened to him."  
  
Mycroft was suddenly tongue-tied.  
  
"Now Mr Holmes," his monarch said, patting his leg familiarly, "Don't be reticent.  I believe I am well up on current events.  More than you might suppose.  Tell me everything about what you would like done now: and by that I am asking you, Mr Holmes, to do me the honour of taking me into your complete confidence.    With respect to what you think should be done at MI6, and with respect to your future career, of course--  and perhaps also, with respect to your dashing Detective Inspector Lestrade.  That is the, may I say -- the heart ---  of the problem, is it not?  Isn't that why you telephoned?"  
  
"No one exceeds Your Majesty in perceptiveness."  
  
Queen Elizabeth signaled and a brandy was poured out for her.  
  
* * *  
  
There was a soft knock and the butler entered.  "I beg pardon, ma'am, but you wished to choose the Duchess of Cambridge's jewels for the reception,"  he said softly.  "I did not wish to delay the Duchess's toilette."  By this he plainly meant that Mycroft was interfering with their schedule.  The Queen indicated he should lay out the jewel cases.  She turned to a telephone on a nearby table.

"You behaved rather devilishly in this affair, Mr. Holmes.  We need men willing to get their hands dirty. Always have done.  Wait a moment."

She perused the blazing jewels and pointed to one of the lesser tiaras, which the butler bore away silently while the phone rang. 

"Prime Minister. .  I'm having a bit of trouble  with Sir Quaintance.  Yes, "C".   I'm sending Mycroft Holmes around with a note.  Yes, the Singh affair. Yes Holmes is, rather:  I think so too.  Please bear that in mind, in future.  My note shall make everything clear; Holmes can explain the rest.  In  one hour.  I hope you see fit to act accordingly.  Good night."

 

* * *

Mycroft attended his debriefing with Allardyce punctually at 1:00 a.m. as instructed.  Allardyce was perusing a dossier and pretended not to notice Mycroft, who patiently waited him out.  Finally, Allardyce looked up.

"Let's get down to business, Holmes.  Moscow.  We'll need to make certain your "Sergei" identity is current and tight.  I thought we'd start there."

"Yes. . .  About that, Allardyce.  You needn't concern yourself about "Sergei."  I am very stringent in keeping my identities in good condition.  But before we begin, would you be so good as to read this note." 

Allardyce looked offended at Mycroft's failure to address him as "sir."  He was several levels above Holmes in rank and had been whispered to possibly be in line, someday, to be future Chief. 

He took the little square envelope, bearing the distinctive red stamp and handwritten initial "C" across the flap.  This meant a personal directive from the Chief himself. 

He was unable to conceal his surprise, Mycroft noted with disapproval.  They would have to attend to his demeanor.  Where Allardyce was going, a good poker face was mandatory; a matter of life or death, even. 

" _Moscow!"_ Allardyce exploded.  "What in God's name --"

Holmes held up his hand.  "I must insist that you compose yourself, Allardyce.   Now if you would be so kind as to just step around the desk, I'm afraid I must reset all your passwords -- there: done!  Now you might want to call for some tea. I've already had -- something to restore my own energies.  We have a long night ahead of us.   You've never had a Moscow posting.  It is my considered opinion that you're not ready.  But I'm . . . .willing to rectify that."

"Holmes! You devil-  I mean, you're not _really_ \---"

"Yes.  I am.  _Really._  Naturally I cannot refuse a direct order from "C."  And from those, shall we say, to whom even "C" must report.  I shall be taking over your desk, Allardyce, as well as taking on some additional duties that won't concern you in the slightest.  And I do hate to be rigid about such things but it would be best if in future you address me as "Sir".  And while you're waiting for your tea, you might want to fetch a language module.  Your Russian has always been appalling.  And make an appointment to get out on the firearms range--  first thing in the morning.  Moscow isn't Brussels, you know.  Now I haven't much time --  so don't stand there gaping."

 

* * *

  
Lestrade was being given a grand tour of Police Nationale headquarters in Paris, and had been asked to give a talk about his experiences with the Day of Wrath terrorists, which he did with his usual aplomb.  An entourage of journalists and his CanalPlus handlers followed him everywhere.  He had been on the cover of Paris Match, Hello!, and InStyle, where his aviator shades and even his cane caused a new fashion sensation.   
  
Asked by the press when he ever intended to take up his cousin Edouard's invitation to dinner at his restaurant in the Eiffel Tour, he flashed a grin and said, "Tonight! I'm back to London tomorrow."  
  
To the shocked pleas of the press (and, amazingly, actual fans) that he stay in Paris, he laughed and shook his head.  
  
"I'll be coming back regularly now, you've all been amazing.  But this hasn't exactly been a vacation, has it!" They all laughed with him.  "Now my friends are well and out of hospital, there is someone back in London that I believe needs me home.  And I'm not willing to wait a single day longer," Lestrade said into the cameras' flashing lights.  
  
If Mycroft wouldn't return his calls, Lestrade was certain he would get this message.   
  
If the rest of the world had to hear it too, that was fine by him.  All the better.  
  
* * *  

The little coin shop in Bayonne was closed.  John saw the Sherlock was unsurprised and even appeared to have expected this.  The owner of the camera shop next door told them that the daughter of the shop owner had suddenly shuttered it up. Sherlock returned to their identities as coin collectors and with a small donation was able to secure her address, an apartment nearby.  They found her packing. 

She remembered them very well but seemed very displeased to see them.  Her eyes were red from crying.  

"Why are you here?  Shop's closed.  I don't have any important coins, they're all just tourist things.  You can look through that box over there if there's anything particular you want but if not, I'll thank you to please leave.  I'm -- in  a hurry." 

She looked frightened.

"What's the hurry?" Sherlock said.  "Something's changed. Hasn't it.  You've heard from your brother."

The woman collapsed onto a chair in her kitchen.  John recalled vaguely that the woman had told them that after her father had fallen ill with a stroke, she had been unable to find her brother.  Her brother, who was the one taught everything about coins.  Destined to take over the family business. 

A brother in trouble with the police. Drugs, she had said.

"It wasn't drugs, was it.  At least, that wasn't what the trouble was really about.   You know that now, don't you."  
  
"Are you with the police?" she whispered.  "I've been so afraid." 

"We aren't police, but yes, we work with them.  We can help you."  Sherlock pulled out his mobile.  "Is this man your brother?"

She gave it only a glance, before bursting into tears.  But she nodded. "Yes." 

John looked at the photo.  Aguirre, in the now world-famous photo of him being taken away from Willencourt by French police, Lestrade limping in the background, both men covered in coal dust.

"You can't do this alone, no matter what he told you," Sherlock said.

"What are you talking about?" She said in a strangled voice. 

"Come now.  You've packed your bags.  You've closed up shop. You've left your map of the autoroute marked up here on your kitchen table.  John, even you can deduce this one.  Where is she going?"

John glanced at the map, only rolling his eyes a little at Sherlock's insult, which he figured was likely meant as a compliment.  There was a red line leading from Bayonne, going northeast.  There was a red circle around her destination.

"She's going to Willencourt," John said in disbelief.  
  
* * *  
  
"He sent me a letter. I suppose he must have thought he --" she was crying so hard now that John was certain she would not be able to continue.  
  
"'He'-- his real name isn't 'Aguirre,' is it? That is a _nom de guerre_.   Your brother thought he wasn't going to survive the Day of Wrath. One way or another," Sherlock said, and John was surprised to hear his voice tremble.  He glanced up to see Sherlock's face very grave, clearly remembering that he, too, had thought they were not going to survive it.  
  
"His name is Philippe Abbouet.  I never knew anything about -  I can't tell you what a shock it was, seeing his face like that --  Aguirre - on the news, and the horrible things they said he's done. . . ."  
  
"Yes, yes, that's clear.  You weren't to know.  No one knew.  May we see the letter?" She reached into her handbag and handed over a crumpled letter.   
  
"I don't believe what they say about Philippe now."  
  
The letter was terse.  " _Dearest Sandrine: 85. 100. 5.   Remember me.   Be brave_."  
  
"What does it mean?  I keep thinking, and thinking, until my head hurts.  I don't know.  I thought maybe he has a safe at this farmhouse in Willencourt, and this is the combination.  And he says, _'be brave.'_ I thought I would get in trouble with the police for going there.  So I waited, but it has been over a month now, I thought . . . .it might be safe now.   He wants me to go: he sent the map with the route marked out and the direction of the farmhouse.  Now, though, with all the news, anyone in France could find it."  
  
"You're coming with us.  You don't need to be afraid," Sherlock said.  She seemed reassured and stopped crying.  
  
"Sherlock! We can't go back . . . we have to let the French police handle this, this time."  
  
"This is not exactly a police emergency," Sherlock said mysteriously, and refused to say more.  John suddenly lacked the energy to joust with Sherlock, and remained silent.  Sherlock peered into his face closely. "John, I want you to --"  
  
"No."  
  
"But you're not well.  I insist."  
  
"No."  
  
"Then wait. I have to make a call," Sherlock said.  
  
* * *  
  
Willencourt is nearly 850 kilometers northeast from Calais.  John's jaw dropped open when they drove out in Sandrine's little Peugeot to an airstrip outside Calais to find a private airplane standing by.  Sherlock pulled out the duffel that John had last seen on the Eurostar train to Paris, when they left London to find Mycroft at MI6's behest.  The duffel that was stuffed with the equivalent of twenty thousand pounds in euros, cash, and within minutes they were flying.  
  
The farmhouse in Willencourt was empty.  It looked as it had looked that day over a month ago, that Sherlock and John had hidden here waiting for Mycroft: except for the tracks of numerous vehicles, footprints, new stout locks on the gate and the remains of crime scene tape everywhere.   
  
"Well, that was fun," John said.  He meant it.  Private airplanes were a thrill.  Now all he wanted to do was climb right back on board as fast as they could and be back in London in time for dinner.  
  
Within moments Sherlock had gotten them back inside the farmhouse.  There were still bloodstains on the floor; quite a lot. John saw the large splotches where Sherlock had lain after being shot in the shoulder.  Sherlock paid this no mind: he was roaming around but clearly not finding anything of interest. The French police had been very thorough and the house was quite empty but for a few sticks of furniture.   
  
The sofa had several bullet holes in it and was turned onto its side.  Suddenly John felt quite ill and sat down. He turned away from the stains.   
  
"Whatever your brother wanted you to find, he would not have hidden it anywhere that the police would look. He was far too clever for that.  And so I'm guessing it isn't in the house at all. We know that Aguirre- Philippe-- was captured down in the mine.  Perhaps he'd been down there, before. . ."  
  
"Philippe would never go down into such a place.  Not voluntarily.  Never.  He had terrible claustrophobia, you know.  Any place dark, closed in, and most of all below ground, would make him go wild.  He couldn't bear it.  I always wanted him to get help, but he was ashamed.  I was the only one that knew, though.  He didn't want our father to know.  And Mother would have told.  So it was a secret, just between us.  He made me promise."  
   
Sherlock was still, thinking.  
  
"He says in the note, " _remember me."_ Why say that, particularly?  Of course you would remember him, he is your brother, how could you not remember?"  
  
John raised a disbelieving eyebrow at this.  This was tantamount to an outright declaration by Sherlock of filial feeling for Mycroft.  He realized then that in so many ways, Sherlock had become very different from the man he had met, that first day, oblivious to feeling:  
  
 _"That was ages ago! Why would she still be upset? . . . .Not good?"_  
  
 _"Bit not good."_  
  
* * *  
  
"What did he want you to remember about him?  Think: Sandrine, _"remember me, be brave_ ,"  he says. . .  Was there another time you had to be brave?  For Philippe?"  
  
She stared at Sherlock.  "Yes, of course.  It was how he became a claustrophobic.  It was all my fault.  We went down into the caves at the seashore, in Normandy.  On holiday.  The sea cave.  We had been playing at pirates, and he buried my favorite coins for treasure.  They weren't worth anything, but father used to let us play, you know, with the touristy ones.   And I was crying about it when the tide came in.  I wanted them back.  And so Philippe went in to dig them up, even though it was nearly dark outside, but he -- he caught his foot in a rock and couldn't get out."  
  
"And you went in after him."  
  
"Yes, I did.  And I got him free. I am the eldest, you know.  We nearly drowned, the both of us. Afterward, he could never go in any dark enclosed place.  And we never told anyone what happened."  
  
"When was this?"  
  
"We were . . .he was nine and I was eleven. So it would have been -- let me think. 1985."  
  
"Eighty-five.  Don't you see? The numbers in his letter. '85.  What do 100, 5 mean?"  
  
"It's easy. I don't know why I didn't think of it, except that I try never to think of that day.  It was over twenty-five years ago.  We used to play pirates, make treasure maps.  100 paces, under a pyramid of five stones."  
  
Sherlock was already pulling on something else that had been hidden in the duffel - a pilfered radiation suit from AREVA, a geiger counter, a portable alpha-ray scanner, and a flashlight.  
  
"But -- Sherlock --  how will you get down there?"  The sight of a geiger counter now had the power to make him tremble, and he clenched his fists to hide it.   
  
"You said Aguirre appeared out of nowhere, that day, here in this house, John.  There must be a hidden door to a -- cellar, something that gives into the mines.  He had to have gotten in that way to get past Mycroft and  Lestrade."  During their long convalescence in the AREVA hospital, Lestrade had told Sherlock the entire story.  Well, nearly all of it: but Sherlock could easily guess at the rest.  And it made him --  happy, that is what that feeling was -- happy for Lestrade, and for Mycroft.  He congratulated himself that his brother had seemingly taken his advice after all, the best  advice he knew:  
  
Life is short.  
  
Within ten minutes he had found the trap door, at the bottom of a pantry cupboard in the kitchen.  
  
"Don't follow me, John" he said.  "For once, let me protect you.  And I've only the one suit."  
  
"You could have stolen two suits.  _Sherlock._ You _planned_ this."  
  
Sherlock smirked and disappeared below, banging the trap door after him.  
  
* * *  
  
Not more than half an hour later, the door lifted again.  Sherlock was now holding a small box in his hands.  "Don't worry, it's clear down below.  If they ever stashed radioactive material down there,  it was very secure indeed.  It's safe."  
  
They gathered around and looked at the box.  It was made of steel and had a combination lock.  "'85-100-5'  Only his own sister would know it."   
  
The box opened.  
  
Inside was a single coin, resting on black velvet.   The coin looked to be pure gold.

It had letters that read, EID MAR.

"Sherlock - it’s the coin - the real one – is it real?"

Sherlock smiled. "I believe that it is. It is an authentic Ides of March coin, minted by Marcus Brutus himself to commemorate the assassination of Julius Caesar. I told you before, John, that there are only seventy-five known surviving examples of this coin. But I did not mention that of those seventy-five, only two are gold. The rest are silver."

"And so, this would be only the third golden coin?"

Sandrine was mesmerized by the coin, but looked afraid. "But – my father never had any such coin, I know it. It must be worth – I don’t know all that my father knew, or all that he taught my brother, but such a coin would have to be worth a great deal of money. We never had such a thing. It would have changed everything."

"No, your father never had it. But Senor Ayala, your father’s best friend, did."

"No – "

"I’m sorry, Mademoiselle. I have to say that I believe that your brother killed Senor Ayala to take this coin. You told us that there were stories about Senor Ayala being a forger, making counterfeit coins. And that only your father believed in him, and did not believe these stories about him. I think we will find that Ayala was thought to have forged this coin, it is too fantastic to believe. And I believe that his honor was offended and he kept it a secret, to himself. And became obsessed with the story behind the coin."

"I do remember my father and my brother speaking of it, often. But I never realized what it meant."

"The story planted a seed in your brother’s mind. Later, when he unleashed his terror plot, he believed he was following in Brutus’ footsteps. Striking against tyranny, striking for freedom. He believed that of anyone on earth, he deserved to have this coin. And Ayala would never be parted from it: he killed Ayala, and stole it.   
  
"I believe he felt guilty for abandoning you after your father’s stroke. He believed that he would not survive the Day of Wrath; perhaps he never intended to. And I believe he wanted to take care of you, and that is why he wanted you to have the coin. It was all he could give you. But he couldn’t have anyone else know of it but you. That is why he left you the note, in code."

"It’s not mine at all, then. It belongs to Senor Ayala – but he’s dead – you say Philippe killed him – if he had this coin. . . it must be so."

"I think we know who to refer this to," John said. "I may still have the gentleman’s card." And he did: _Roderigo de la Pena, Attorney at law, 5 Calle Viejo, Bilbao, Spain._

"The police in Bilbao will be relieved to know that we know who Ayala’s murderer is, after all, and that he is safe behind bars, and will never, ever get out," Sherlock said.

"May I hold it?" Sandrine asked. Sherlock gave her the coin. She let it rest in her hand for a moment.

"I really do know he’s guilty, you know," she said, her voice drained of all emotion. "I said I didn’t believe it, but I do, really. And so what I wish is . . . .I wish I hadn’t ever gone back. Back into that cave at Normandy," she said. "I should have left him there." She turned the coin over and over in the light. "It’s like – pirate treasure, isn’t it? Did you find it under a pyramid of five stones, like I said?"

"I did," Sherlock said gravely. "I wish it had been just a game. I wish your brother had been – only a pirate."

She handed the coin back to Sherlock, where it glittered in his palm for a moment, and then he locked it carefully back in the box.

* * *

Lestrade took the tiny private elevator to the Jules Verne restaurant, on the second level of the Eiffel Tower. This brought back strong memories of an elevator at a hotel in the Isle of Man, Mycroft running his finger across his lip.

_"What are you doing?"_

_"Confirming,"_ Mycroft had said.

When he entered the restaurant, Edouard Lestrade launched himself at him and crushed him in a vigorous embrace, then planted kisses on both cheeks. Greg unrestrainedly did the same. Edouard was wearing his chef’s whites and wore an imposing toque. The Jules Verne had a Michelin star, and while this was down to Ducasse’s genius, Edouard was the one who did the grinding hard work, day in and day out, to preserve and defend this precious honour.

After the necessary enthusiastic praise for Greg’s heroism, which he modestly deflected by inquiring about family members he hadn’t seen since he was a boy, Edouard led Lestrade to his table, the very best one. With a view over the Trocadero Gardens and the whole of Paris. The sunset was fading, and through the panoramic windows the entire city looked to be on fire with it. Edouard let him appreciate the view, discreetly having the _sommelier_ bring out a glass of champagne while they drank in the rapturous sight together.

And so it was a few minutes until Lestrade really looked around. And realised that the restaurant was completely empty, except for the staff who stood by, alert to any order by their chef.

"Edouard – What is this? Am I too early? Are you closed on Tuesdays? You should have said, I would never have –"

Edouard smiled. "It is not. Tonight is a very special night. Tonight we make an exception for you, _cher cousin._ "

Greg didn’t know what to say, but tried to express to Edouard that this was a very great gift – an extravagant surprise after the crush of the omnipresent paparazzi and his long hospital vigil: the exquisite beauty of this place felt good to his soul.

And he didn’t have time to suffer from his pang of longing that he was dining nearly alone in possibly the most romantic restaurant in the world, because he heard whispers near the elevator, and then a tall figure wearing an impeccable dark suit was striding across the room toward him. Edouard hastened to greet him with another glass of champagne.

"Monsieur Holmes! Permit me to welcome you again to the Jules Verne, I hope you find everything is as you – " Edouard effused.

"Yes, later, do you mind," Mycroft said vaguely, not even looking in his direction, and actually waving his hand in a gesture of dismissal. Edouard clapped his hands and the staff all vanished, ushered by Edouard.

Mycroft didn’t give Greg a chance to say whatever he might have said, because in two long steps they were in each other’s arms, and in one more, Mycroft had him crushed between a pillar and the huge window, Paris at night spread glittering beneath them, but neither of them was looking. Their kiss was hard and nearly desperate at first, a continuation of their last kiss at Willencourt, but without pause it melted into something slow, gentle, hot and incandescent. Mycroft felt Greg’s hand in his hair, pulling him in closer, his other arm strong around him, holding him up, and he was glad because all of his fears and hopes finally came crashing wildly together like the clamor of church bells to the hammering of his heart.

"It’s all right, we’ re all right," Greg said into his ear, softly. "We made it."

"Forgive me," Mycroft said, so afraid that this could be taken from him after all.

"Nothing to forgive. Don’t say that. I can take it, I did take it. I wouldn’t ever have it different than it was. Well," he patted his leg, still in its cast.

"I thought you’d hate me," Mycroft said seriously. "I’ve hated myself, you see."

"My, don’t you understand anything by now? Are you as blind as I was, then? I could never hate you," he said. "I love you. There. What do you think of that."

What Mycroft thought of that was buried for a long minute in another passionate kiss, but he finally pulled away and said, very seriously, and looking him straight in the eye, "I love you, Greg. I’ve – never been in love before."

Greg smiled a little at that, but gently, tenderly. "I would have told you before – but you wouldn’t return my calls. You nearly drove me mad."

"I had to see you face to face. And I couldn’t, not before now. I didn’t see any other way."

"Except to close this entire restaurant so we could have a private chat– in the Eiffel Tower?"

"I like to stack the odds in my favor," Mycroft said smugly. "I never lose."

"Well, I did say before we left London that it was time that we just – went out to dinner. And I wasn’t going to chase you down a third time – first Yorkshire, then Bilbao. Time you came to me, I thought."

"I’ll always come to you. How am I doing?"

"I don’t see any dinner yet. But there’s champagne. And the view makes up for a lot."

They couldn’t break their embrace, never wanted to move from each other’s arms again. Mycroft was murmuring something against his neck, something about his hotel, but Greg wasn’t really paying much attention.

Edouard made a discreet cough from a few feet away.

"Are you ready for the first course, _mes amis_? We have prepared a truly special feast for you - ten courses – "

Mycroft and Greg looked at each other. They were hungry. But not for this.

"Ah, Edouard, you’re a prince, but – treat your staff, go ahead – we won’t be staying after all – we, ah, aren’t – we’ve somewhere else we need to be–" Greg stammered, very nearly blushing, a sight that was so hot it Mycroft was certain he’d never make it to his hotel.

Edouard nodded, smiling. He withdrew as discreetly as he had entered. The French understand everything about love.

They looked out over Paris from this perfect, unique vantage. The hour struck and the Eiffel Tower lights began sparkling, shimmering and glittering like fireworks. It was magical, and they looked on in wonder until as suddenly as it had started, the twinkling slowed, then dimmed back to a steady glow. Everything was very quiet, under an enchantment.

Within moments they were back in the elevator, breathless in each other’s arms.  
  
[](http://pics.livejournal.com/ghislainem70/pic/0002xh4k/)

  
Watch the Eiffel Tower, listen to Listen to La Vie en Rose: [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cB9ZOaPKPCw&list=PL9BC6C3236AC1A2D9&index=1](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cB9ZOaPKPCw&list=PL9BC6C3236AC1A2D9&index=1)


	18. Lightning Strikes the Heart

All Souls’ Day: A Mystrade Adventure. Part Two, Chapter Seven: Lightning Strikes The Heart.  
  
  
  
  
  
**December, Bilbao, Spain**  
  
  
[](http://pics.livejournal.com/ghislainem70/pic/000343cp/)  
  
The story of the discovery of the golden Ides of March coin created a sensation around the world.  
  
Roderigo de la Pena, Ayala's attorney and executor, conducted a scrupulously correct investigation into the provenance of the coin, which, to the surprise of experts, was satisfactorily documented. The coin was verified by experts as authentic, a serious concern: one of only two extant gold examples of this infamous coin in the world had recently been adjudicated as false.  
  
Ayala had preserved photographs and his diary from 1937. That historic year he had fought as a youth in the bloody Spanish Civil War; that year, the Basque capital of Biscay, Guernica was bombed into oblivion by Nazi Germany’s Luftwaffe, inspiring Picasso's anti-war masterpiece.  
  
Biscay was part of the ancient Roman province of Hispania Terraconensis. In the aftermath of the bombing, Ayala discovered the collapsed remains of a Roman burial vault which, to his astonishment, contained a small horde of Roman coins, one of pure gold.  
  
Experts agreed that the Roman dignitary buried in the vault had come into possession of the Ides of March denarius as a family heirloom. He was a descendant of the Roman general Decimus Junius Brutus Albinus, who Caesar had been said to love like son. Decimus Junius Brutus had nevertheless cold-bloodedly escorted Caesar to the Senate on the Ides of March.   
  
And then plunged in with his own knife.  
  
Sherlock, upon learning of the coin's provenance, could not help reflecting upon the murder of Ayala himself: stabbed to death in his own shop by the beloved son of his best friend, who had been steeped in the legend of the Ides of March denarius since childhood.  
  
Sherlock did not believe in curses.  
  
But he did believe in the infinite suggestibility of weaker minds.  
  
* * *  
  
The law of Spain is strict was pertaining to the discovery of a treasure trove: all such treasures are the property of the state. But the Spanish government swiftly decided to sell it, rather than to keep in a museum where, it was feared, it might continue to inspire ETA.  
  
The fatal coin sold at an historic auction for a record-breaking $10 million pounds to an anonymous bidder.  
  
As swiftly as it had appeared, the golden Ides of March denarius disappeared once again from the world’s view.  
  
* * *  
  
**December. La Bastide de Moustiers, Moustiers-Saint-Marie, Provence.**  
  
[](http://pics.livejournal.com/ghislainem70/pic/0002y9tq/) [](http://pics.livejournal.com/ghislainem70/pic/0002zz49/)  
  
“If you keep insisting on applying quite this much, I’ll never catch up with you,” Mycroft protested; very half-heartedly.  
  
Greg seemed quite content to delay actual sunbathing by a pleasurably slow and thorough process of applying suntan lotion to Mycroft’s shoulders, just beginning to show a golden tint. Whereas, Mycroft noted with mild envy mixed with lust, their very first day in the pure mountain air of the Alpes-de-Haute Provence had turned Lestrade quite brown.  
  
The mini-break had been another generous gift from Edouard. Bastide des Moustiers was Alain Ducasse’s inn in the Gorge de Verdon, a wild and rugged valley in the mountains of Provence. It was unseasonably hot and mild for mid-December, but they had been warned that at any moment, the cold winds would come.  
  
“I don’t want you to burn,” Greg murmured against his ear, and began the equally slow process of spreading the lotion over his chest, lingering a little in the fair hair there.  
  
There didn’t seem to be any real reason to mention that he might reach that bit himself.  
  
“In that case, you never should have opened the door to me that night,” Mycroft said daringly. He was never sure Greg would entirely accept his bold declarations, and tried very hard not to imagine all of the seductions that had been thrown Greg’s way in the past. A man that gorgeous, well; you just knew the list had to be long, varied, and heartbroken. He was determined never to fall in the later category.  
  
But there was little risk of that at the moment, seemingly, while Greg was making achingly little progress toward completing his task. Whatever the task actually was.  
  
“Give me – your hand,” he said finally, unable to endure more. He dragged Greg’s hand a little lower. And then a lot lower, until Greg could be in no doubt at all the effect that the lotion under his hands was having.  
  
Greg smiled wickedly. “That night – I remember what happened when I tried to do the same – with your hand, in that elevator – don’t you?” Greg said, biting a little on his lower lip. “You were teasing me, then. So cruel you were. You let me go up to my room -- all alone. You were going to make me wait.”  
  
“That . . . wasn’t it.” Everything smelled like something tropical, incongruous with the dazzling Provencal sun and olive trees outside their window. Somehow they fell back into bed, the sheets tossed to the floor, and everything was very warm, a little slippery. Since being released from his cast, Greg quite liked to climb on top, hold him down, and employ various maneuvers that made him writhe and buck underneath, but carefully so as not to hurt his leg.  
  
Greg was doing this now, in fact, letting his warm slick hand roam under his swim briefs, teasingly, encircling but not touching.  
  
“Then what was it? Truth now,” Greg was watching his face as the teasing quickly became intolerable, and this made him smile more, which seemed to make the teasing much worse.  
  
“I was afraid –“ he gasped. God help him.  
  
“Didn’t seem that way– at the time. Cocky bastard, what I thought then.” Just a little sharp tug at this, enough that if he had thought he was hard before, it was nothing to this.  
  
“Hmmm. I was . . . afraid. That you'd -- change your mind. But then, well-- I went up to your room. . . after all.  I had to.”  
  
“I always knew you were brilliant,” Greg said. “But exactly . . . ..how long were you thinking of making me wait, before?” Now he took his hand away and wasn’t touching him anywhere terribly important any more, just rubbing a little lotion into the skin of his thighs, which all by itself was making him nearly see stars. It was impossible. He had never been susceptible, before, to anything of the kind, or ever wanted to be. This slow, gentle, and nearly unendurable pleasure. He was biting his lip to stop from sighing, begging, whatever would happen if he just let it. He pulled at Greg’s wrist, hoping to bring his hands back to his needy cock, and Greg obliged, but with a feather-like touch that made his breath come even faster.  
  
“You aren’t answering my question,” Greg pursued idly, running a slick finger in a lazy circle.  
  
“A day,” Mycroft gasped as Greg relented and stroked, hard and strong.  
  
“A whole day-- you’d have left me aching, like this,” Greg said as Mycroft strained under his hand. “You’re lucky I’m not so cruel,” he said and yanked down his briefs finally, murmuring how the sight was fucking gorgeous, before taking him all the way into his mouth and then he wasn’t teasing at all, not a bit.  
  
All Mycroft was able to manage was “God, wait – “ before he came hard under the firm wetness of tongue, into his throat to a cry that was half ecstasy, half surprise at how little he was able to control  himself, control any of this.  
  
And how little, really, he wanted to.  
  
* * *  
  
  
  
Mycroft decided that his lack of color was really appalling compared to Greg’s bronze, and discreetly wiped off some of the lotion before settling into a deck chair by the swimming pool, an aquamarine rectangle reflecting a brilliant blue sky. There were no other guests here, out of season.  
  
They lounged, lazy and content. They devoured meals prepared in Ducasse’s simple little country restaurant, so different to the drama and elegance of the Jules Verne at the Eiffel Tower: here, the kitchen was quite open, and with delightful scents of Provencal cooking scenting the air. There was a leisurely and decadent lunch to be savored: roasted asparagus with olives; Charolais beef with shallot preserves, a light salad. They shared the chocolate hazelnut tart.  
  
Mycroft was so languid that even the somewhat too-attentive ministrations of the staff to Greg, who was a media star even in the countryside, apparently, didn’t really disturb him. They sipped from sturdy little tumblers of white wine and watched clouds roll swiftly by. They were right; the cold wind would soon be here.   The wine was almost gone. He felt pleasantly fuzzy from the sun, the wine, the amazing scenery, which definitely encompassed more than just the surrounding mountains. Greg, too, seemed content to doze in his chaise lounge, occasionally dipping into the pool and splashing Mycroft just a little.  Finally Greg noticed he was turning pink and threw a towel over him.

“No more sun for you, it’s stronger than it feels,” Greg scolded.

This made Mycroft smile; when had anybody ever cared enough to scold him? Well, there was Mummy -- which was of course quite, _quite_ different -- but that led to his train of thought of a moment before, that kept intruding into his unusually disorganised mind.  
  
“I think we need to plan a little trip north,” Mycroft said.  
  
“You aren’t suggesting that I keep away from the Yard much longer, I’ll be sacked, and that’s a fact. This ‘media darling’ nonsense won’t take me much farther with my Super, I can tell you that. I hate to think what my case files look like.” He refused to picture his desk. It had been overflowing when he left; now . . .He decided to forget the Yard, piles of crime files cascading from his desktop. For a while longer. The real crime would be not to allow himself to luxuriate in this amazing place with My, for as long as it lasted.  
  
“About that,” Mycroft sat up and pulled his chair under an umbrella. He had crafted a new plan concerning Greg’s future duties at the Yard that he thought might be, after all, the best of both worlds. “I’ve --  something to propose to you.”  
  
_“Propose_?” Greg looked wide-eyed at this.  
  
Mycroft realized his blunder, and then just as quickly realized it wasn’t a blunder at all.  
  
Everything was very quiet for a moment and they both were probably holding their breaths. Well, if it was a Freudian slip of sorts, that didn’t make it any less true, any less right. All of his fears came rushing back, and for a moment he thought that it would be impossible to say it.  
  
"Go on, it's all right," Greg said softly.  
  
And so, he reached for Greg’s hand and took it. It felt solid, warm and strong. What would be impossible, he realized, was not to say it no matter how fundamentally terrifying the prospect was.  This was crossing the Rubicon.  
  
“The truth is," he stammered, "I --- do. I do have something -- to propose. To you. When we go home, I want you to come home. To St. John’s Wood. And – I don’t want you to leave.”  
  
“You want me to _move in_ with you? What – like Sherlock and John?” He was half-teasing now.  
  
Mycroft was scandalized. “Whatever do you take me for? My intentions are, and always have been, completely honorable. I haven’t the slightest desire that you should ‘move in’ with me. I --" He didn’t know how to explain, but the remembrance of his parents, of their strong marriage, their particular joy on their wedding anniversary, came to strongly to him. It was a model of happiness he had never allowed himself to hope for, until now.  
  
“– I don’t believe in it.”  
  
“Don’t – believe in what?”  
  
“‘ _Living together.’_ Definitely. Not. I’m asking you to marry me. Formally, legally, insofar as that is possible in our nation at present. I’ll do everything in my power to make you happy, always, I swear,” he said, his heart hammering and soaring all at once.  
  
“You’re very sure? Because when I give my word, I keep it. There’s no going back.” Greg looked very serious and determined and Mycroft realized that in this, they were alike. Whatever had come before, for each of them, it was never going to be enough now to be just lovers, an open-ended amusement with no obligation, no permanence. They could never be that.  
  
“I’ve never been more sure of anything. When I give my word, I keep it too. And I mean to. There’s no going back. Will you?” Mycroft waited, and despite his certainty a seemingly infinite moment of doubt that he could have this stretched before him: a life that held this much richness after so long in what he only now recognized had been a cold, unfulfilled existence. He knew he couldn’t deserve it, didn’t deserve him but he also knew that he could never live without him. Impossible.  
  
Just for a moment, the shadow of the past months flickered between them but only brought them closer, made this the more precious.  
  
“I will,” Greg said, his heart expanding almost painfully with joy, and with that, the seriousness vanished and there wasn’t really anything more to talk about, and they were laughing in each other’s arms in the warm sun, and all darkness was banished.  
  
  
* * *  
  
**Christmas Eve. Riddleston Hall, West Yorkshire.**  
  
  
  
  
  
Mycroft and Lestrade determined there was no reason at all to wait, and announced a Christmas wedding.  
Mycroft's proposed ‘trip north’ was to Riddleston Hall, Lady Eugenia Holmes’ ancestral estate in West Yorkshire. As she had long hoped, this year both of her sons were united under one roof for Christmas and the house was full of happy visitors.  
  
And so it was that late that Christmas Eve, Mycroft and Greg sat quietly in the library.  Sherlock and John were here, completing Lady Holmes' happiness.   Mrs Blessing, Riddleston Hall’s cook, brought mulled wine and gingerbread, and even Sherlock had his fair share.  Sherlock was shooting billiards; John keeping up less well than he remembered, but wasn’t really trying. The sooner Sherlock got bored, the sooner they could retreat to their cottage.  
  
There was a new television here, which Lady Holmes had finally installed at Mycroft’s behest. He was a serious movie buff: until finding Lestrade, Mycroft had whiled away long hours in the library watching his favourite films.  And while it was turned down low, there were flashing headlines of the upcoming treason and terrorism trial of former MI6 operative Sanjay Singh.  Singh looked at the cameras with an expression both sorrowful and aggreived.  
  
His solicitor was saying something about an entrapment defense.  
  
Lestrade looked at the screen thoughtfully.  Mycroft was looking too, with a poorly-concealed expression of worry.  Mycroft was a champion worrier.  In his eyes Lestrade saw the lingering remnants of guilt over having, as he felt, put Lestrade through an unacceptable physical and moral ordeal in the Day of Wrath affair.  
  
“My,” Greg said.  “Stop now.  It’s over. It’s done.”  
  
Mycroft shook his head. He didn’t know how to explain.  While they had captured many of the Day of Wrath terrorists, he knew it was impossible to know that they had caught them all.  And while any remained, some might seek vengeance.   
  
And as long as Singh lived, Aguirre lived, they might still wield power.  Even from prison.  
  
As though he could read his thoughts, Lestrade was at his side.  
  
“You did right,” he said.  “My, you did right.  There’s to be a trial.  It will all come out right. He’ll never get out of prison.  Nor will Aguirre.”  
  
Mycroft crushed him in a hard embrace.  He could not believe how close death had come, how narrowly he had escaped never having any of this, having lost everything.  No punishment he could imagine for Singh seemed adequate.  
  
“ _Entrapment_ ,” he spat contemptuously.  “You know what the lawyers will do.”  
  
Greg took his hand.  “Everyone will see what Singh is, My.  A traitor.  A terrorist.  You did that.  You brought him to justice.  I know--  it could have been different. I’m so proud of you.  Of what you did.  What you are.”  
  
Mycroft gulped.  He realized that perhaps not since his father had he ever craved anyone’s approval, but now he needed it.  “You’re proud?”  He turned away a little because he knew, he just knew, that there were tears in there about to spring out, and he wouldn’t, just wouldn’t, be an emotional ninny on the eve of their wedding.  Not about this.  
  
“I am.  And I always will be.  Now we’ve a big day tomorrow, love. I hope your traditional ideas don’t involve not seeing me till our wedding day,” Greg said with one of those brilliant smiles that always made his heart turn somersaults.  Mycroft took another gingerbread slice and resolved to forget everything about Singh, Aguirre, and the Day of Wrath.  
  
For now.  
  
 “I may be a traditionalist, and for that, I make no apologies.  But I’m not a fool,” he said.  
  
* * *  
They fell into bed, exhausted and happy, but too excited to sleep.   Mycroft practiced their poem for the ceremony, declaiming like a Shakespearean actor to applause and kisses from Lestrade.   
  
When they finally slept, a snowstorm blew against the windows and blanketed the Hall with clean white new snow for Christmas Day.  
  
* * *  
  
John and Sherlock settled themselves onto the worn sofa in front of a roaring fire.   Smith’s Cottage, the former blacksmith’s cottage, had been Sherlock’s private retreat at Riddleston Hall since his days at uni.  Somehow, they never seemed to sleep in the bed but by cherished habit, liked to huddle on the sofas before the fire.  
  
Sherlock was watching John, studying his face, his hair, his eyes, the faint evidences that he was not yet completely restored to health. This made him feel fiercely protective, and he planted a fervent kiss on John’s temple.  
  
“It’s wonderful, isn’t it,” John said.  
  
“Hmmmm.”  
  
“I mean Lestrade and Mycroft.  I’m hoping they stay at their desks for a while.  We all need to stay close to home now,” John said, and just a touch of rough weariness confirmed his suspicion.  
  
“We’ll stay as close to home as you like,” he murmured against his ear.  “We won’t leave the cottage at all until you say,” he said, and he meant it.  
  
John smiled, mentally calculating whether Sherlock would break this promise in twenty-four, or forty-eight hours. “Except to go to the wedding tomorrow, of course,” he said.  
  
“Well, naturally,” Sherlock said firmly.  “We can’t miss that.”  
  
“Not a bit.”  
  
“Ready for sleep, John? Shall we move to the bed after all?”  
  
“No. But move that knee.”  
  
A long leg was insinuated firmly between his legs with rather more pressure than was strictly necessary and everything got warmer.  John turned his face up to Sherlock’s just in time for their lips to meet, sweetly, gently, as Sherlock had been ever since his horrible illness.  
  
“Don’t worry,” Sherlock whispered, “I’ll only kiss you.”  
  
And he did.  But between kisses, there were still things that needed saying, apparently.  
  
“I’m not worried.” John whispered.  “I’m fine.”  
  
“Let me decide. Anyway, I’m returning a favor.”  
  
“How’s that?”  
  
“You once took pains to show me how to take things. . .  a great deal slower.”  
  
“I thought it . . . might be useful. Someday.”  
  
“Oh, I agree.  Let me show you.”   
  
Sherlock proceeded to demonstrate, with great patience and restraint, how very well he had learned his lesson.  
  
* * *  
  
**Christmas Day. Riddleston Hall.**  
  
  
After the necesssary exchange of promises connected with their civil partnership, Mycroft read out the poem he had chosen for them, Shakespeare's Sonnet 116:  
  
_"Let me not to the marriage of true minds  
Admit impediments.  
Love is not love  
Which alters when it alteration finds,  
Or bends with the remover to remove:  
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark  
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;  
It is the star to every wandering bark,  
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.  
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks  
Within his bending sickle's compass come:  
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,  
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.  
If this be error and upon me proved,  
I never writ, nor no man ever loved."_  
  
Everyone clapped as they kissed, long and thoroughly, and gazed into each other's eyes with such joy and love that nearly everyone had a tear in their eye --  and those that didn't were merely pretending, fooling no one.   
  
"Nothing like a Christmas wedding, ma'am," MacLeod whispered to Lady Holmes, who was unrestrainedly wiping tears away with a handkerchief.  
  
The reception was in the Great Hall, a Christmas fantasy of boughs, wreaths, twinkling lights and accents of red and gold that Lady Holmes managed despite Mycroft having given her just two week's notice of their plans.  The first champagne was handed around, and Greg stood up, serious and handsome in his tuxedo, and asked everyone to quiet down.  
  
"I have something to say.  Everyone will know that of the two of us, Mycroft is the brilliant one. Runs in the family.  But I'm wishing some of his brother Sherlock's brains rubbed had off on me sooner. God knows he's given me enough opportunity!  But if I had been more “observant,” as Sherlock says,  I wouldn't have to say what I'm proud and happy to say today.  My, I should have been looking closer.  How I missed those gorgeous eyes - it's a crime: I ought to know! But today, and every day, I thank God I woke up and did look closer.   
  
"And because of the promises we've made one another here today, in front of all you lovely friends, I get to say that I won't be missing anything. Ever again. I love you, My."  
  
* * *

A bit later, Lestrade allowed his somewhat tipsy happiness to get away from him, and he raised his glass to Sherlock and John, and said: "Lads, don't let the grass grow under your feet! It's high time you made honest men of one another. Anybody can see -- you'll never be parted."  
  
Sherlock and John looked sheepish at this but then with a happy glance at each other, Sherlock stood up and said, "I'm happy to say, gentlemen, that we've beat you to it."  
  
Lady Eugenia nearly dropped her champagne glass. "Sherlock -- John, you didn't-- _elope_!"  
  
John looked chagrined, but Sherlock said, "We couldn't wait. I think you all know what John went through --"  
  
"What _we_ went through," John interrupted.  
  
"And so, I'd had the papers -- handled specially. We had it all done, legal and binding, as soon as we came home."  
  
At this there was much cheering, hugging, and a flood of more happy tears from Lady Holmes, who was swept up in a dizzying embrace by all four men.  
  
* * *  
  
Of the numerous friends in attendance at Mycroft and Greg’s wedding, were a few old friends from the West Yorkshire Constabulary: Detective Superintendent Charlie Weller, and his subordinate Detective Inspector Elenor Prentiss.  Lady Holmes hastened forward to greet them with.  
  
“Detective Superintendent! How happy I am to be able at last to offer you that glass of champagne,” she teased gently, remembering the day more than a year ago that Weller had broken in on a small champagne celebration of John’s recovery from amnesia, only to arrest him for suspicion of murder.   Now that Weller, under Sherlock’s guidance, had solved the murder without further trouble to her family, all ill feelings were long buried.  
  
Weller, wearing his best Sunday suit against which his heavyweight boxer’s frame appeared to strain uncomfortably, and his puglist’s face to match, accepted the glass gratefully and swallowed it down in two gulps.   Lady Holmes laughingly handed him another glass.  
  
“Weller!” Sherlock shouted from across the room.  “I trust you’re not here on business! I case you haven’t noticed, this is my brother’s wedding.  I’ll thank you not to arrest anyone without going over the evidence with me first,” he said fiercely, shielding John behind him as though Weller were about to take John from him a second time. It was very clear Weller would have a much harder time, now, attempting such a transgression.  
  
“Nay, lad, we come in peace! Your dear mother invited me!” Weller shouted back. No man in England had vocals exceeding Weller’s for sheer volume and penetration.  The windows shook.  
  
“Sherlock, Detective Superintendent Weller kindly called on me last Christmas, when you were . . .gone, and he was a very great comfort,” Lady Holmes said gently, reminding Sherlock of his kidnapping by the serial killer Jack Ramsay, which had caused everyone dear to him to pretty well ignore Christmas last year.  All the more reason the celebrate this one, he knew.  And so he strode across the room and gave a polite, even warm, handshake to Weller in gratitude.  
  
Gratitude.  That was what that feeling was. He knew that one very well now, too, and today of all days he felt almost overcome with it.   
  
And that was going to be all right.  
  
  
* * *  
  
Elenor Prentiss was tall, as tall as a Holmes, and possessed of smashing Nordic blonde looks.  She serenely ignored various male leers at her well-cut wine-colored sheath as she crossed the room to find Sally Donovan by a huge window, looking out at the snowfall.  
  
“DI Elenor Prentiss. I’m with the local force.  I know all of your London blokes here. We worked on the Rexworth murder –  did you know?  You’re Sargeant Donovan, aren’t you?  Lestrade told me about you.  Bloody gorgeous, they all are.  Especially that Lestrade. Where did he get that tan in December?”  
  
Donovan nodded and sighed.  “You see how it is.  Hopeless,” she shrugged meaningfully.  
  
“Too right! All taken, or gay.  I love your dress.  Smashing.”  
  
“Love your shoes.  We’re too fine for this establishment, I’d say.”  
  
“That Sherlock Holmes,” Prentiss said thoughtfully. “I’m not surprised he and John Watson made things legal.  You should have heard him give Doctor Watson’s alibi!  I thought Weller’d have a stroke.”  
         
“What’d Sherlock say, then?”  
  
Prentiss whispered in Donovan’s ear, with the result that she sprayed a quantity of champagne through snorting giggles.  
  
“We thought he was a bit mad – but he solved the case.”  
  
Donovan frowned, then smiled just a little.  Sherlock and John were deep in some private conversation by the fireplace, oblivious to everyone else, dark hair bending down close to fair.  
  
“Solved your case,” she said with exasperation that might even be fond. Perhaps. “He keeps doing that.”  
  
A tanned man with blonde hair and a chiseled jaw insinuated himself up to them.  
  
“How do you do, Detective Inspector Prentiss,” he said archly.  “You’re looking brilliant out of uniform, if I can say so without fear of breaking any laws.”  
  
“Sally Donovan, may I present the Earl of Rexworth –“  
  
“Please call me Richard,” he said warmly.  
  
“Richard, then, owns Rexworth Park, the estate next over to Riddleston Hall,” Prentiss tactfully refrained from mentioning that Rexworth’s stepmother had been unveiled as the murderer in the infamous Rexworth case in which John had been wrongly arrested.   
  
She noticed that he seemed free of the cloud of excessive drink that had been spoiling his looks and his temper, the last time she had seen him.  In fact, he was looking rather well, she thought.  
  
“I’ve known Lady Holmes and her sons my whole life   So happy for them both,” Rexworth said with every sign of sincerity. “I say, no room for handcuffs in that little dress then, Detective,” he said jokingly.  It should have been rude, but he was so charming, it was hard to be offended.  
  
There was a brief silence while Rexworth waited.  Donovan grinned at Prentiss and gave her a tiny nudge with her elbow.  
  
“The night is young,” Prentiss said.   
  
* * *  
  
Donovan drifted over to admire the Christmas tree. There was a light tap at her shoulder.  A tall, dark, and rather intense-looking man stared down at her.  He pointed up.  She had failed to notice the mistletoe.  He smiled uncertainly.  
  
“It’s customary,” he said, a little tipsy. His voice was burred with a mild Scots accent.  His eyes were very blue.  Donovan blinked.  
  
“It is,” she said, and tipped her head back a little, he was so tall.  His lips were very soft and he took no liberties at all.   
  
She decided to rectify that.  
  
“Who are you, then?”  
  
“Colin MacAllister. Don’t worry, I’m quite safe –  I’m a local constable. Here in Cawton. You can ask DI Prentiss.”  
  
“Sargeant Sally Donovan.  I’m quite safe, too.  London copper. Scotland Yard.”   
  
MacAllister smiled broadly, and this made his eyes crinkle around the edges.  This, Sally decided, was something she might not mind seeing repeated.  “I believe,” McAllister said boldly, “that Lady Holmes has a quite fine collection of —“ he stumbled, unable to recall what he had meant to say here.   He’d had a few too many, and that was a fact.  Well, it was a Christmas wedding. To be expected.  
  
Sally took his arm. “Lead the way, constable,” she said.  
  
“You outrank me,”  McAllister observed.  “Perhaps . . . I ought to follow you.”  London women were rather terrifying.  This one, especially; particularly as she was so – beautiful, he decided.  No lesser word would do.  
  
“Now that’s what I call promising,” she said.  
  
* * *  
  
**Boxing Day. Riddleston Hall**  
  
The morning after the wedding dawned clear and bright, the sun brilliant on glittering snowbanks.   
  
Everyone was gathered in the great Victorian kitchen of Riddleston Hall, eating vast quantities of a freshly prepared breakfast, and nibbles of what was left of the reception too.  Lestrade caught Mycroft eyeing a chocolate-covered strawberry and handed it over without remark.   Only because Sherlock and John were watching did he not pin Mycroft down right there and feed it to him.  
  
Sherlock snorted, clearly observing all.  “I believe it is tradition for newlyweds to take themselves off on a honeymoon,” Sherlock said. "You might go now and spare us, Mycroft."  
  
Mycroft was eyeing his mobile seriously and didn’t immediately answer.  Lestrade’s heart fell.  He had hoped for a short stay in Yorkshire at the very least.  Apparently, duty called.   
  
Mycroft looked up, his eyes sparkling with amusement.  
  
“You anticipate me, dear brother.  Yes.  A honeymoon!  Well, perhaps it would be better to say, a working vacation.”  
  
Lestrade laughed ruefully.  “While you’re working, I suppose I can get caught up on my reading.”  
  
Mycroft smiled smugly.  “Whatever made you suppose I was talking about me?  Well, I was, but I did not exclude you.”  
  
Lestrade was mystified.  “Unless it’s a staycation in London, there’s no vacation to be had working at the Yard,” he said.  He pushed back for the millionth time the mental image of his overflowing desk, Donovan’s killing looks at having carried his load for these past months.  
  
“I don’t mean the Yard, Greg. I meant to talk to you about this in Provence,” he said, “but then we ended talking of more important things.”  
  
“Ah.” Lestrade was grinning: the pool, the proposal.  “Well then, no time like the present.  What’s the plan?”  
  
“You’re to be transferred,” Mycroft said.  “How do you feel about the Greek Isles?”  
  
Lestrade was laughing now.  “You’re having me on!”  
  
“I could take that a number of ways: but no, I’m quite serious.  You’re to be transferred, on temporary assignment, to the Yard's Art and Antiquities Squad.”  
  
“What!”  
  
“You’ve worked counterfeiting cases, Greg. And fraud cases.  This isn’t so different.”  
  
“What’s the case?”  
  
“Suffice it to say that one of the world’s greatest antiquities has been stolen.  Apparently it has been  --  smuggled -- the Greeks would say, repatriated --  into Greece.  Stolen, allegedly, from one of the richest and noblest men in England, I might add.    So much so, that a Certain Person felt bound to offer the devoted services of yours truly.  And I, naturally, feel that the services of Scotland Yard’s best and brightest detective would be indispensable.   
  
"The rest, dear husband, we can discuss while we pack.”  
  
* * *  
[](http://pics.livejournal.com/ghislainem70/pic/0003533c/)  
  
  
A week later, they were holding hands on a balcony overlooking the timeless geometry of a whitewashed Greek island village.   The classic sight was healing, uniting their souls.  
  
"I've caught up to you, love, all the way," Greg said as the sun set over the vivid blue of the Aegean Sea, the distant whisper of which brought them nothing but peace.  
  
  
**The End.**  
  
  
  
Listen to Lightning Strikes the Heart: [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=477Zz_eSPC8&feature=related](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=477Zz_eSPC8&feature=related)  
  
  
Thanks to everyone who kept me company on this adventure.  As always, comments are so very appreciated at the end of this story (this is your chance, lurkers).  
  
ghislaine  <3  
  
  
_**Author's afterword:**_  
  
This is, obviously, a work of fiction and no resemblance to any person or persons living or dead is intended: except where historical personages and events are mentioned, in which case I have made clear notes about that, especially in the chapter "The Ghosts of Sandakan".   
  
The characters of Aguirre aka Philippe Abbouet, Sanjay Singh, Ranjit Singh, Elorza, Dr. Julio Echavarri, Yussuf, Senor Ayala, Roderigo de la Pena, Dr. Carre, Sandrine Abbouet, Edouard Lestrade, DS Charlie Weller, DI Elenor Prentiss, Sir Gordon Quaintance, Allardyce, Agent Rennett, Lady Eugenia Holmes, Lord Anthony Holmes, Captain Reginald Holmes, and Constable Colin McAllister, all mentioned in this story are entirely my own creation and entirely fictional.  
  
This story started two years ago, when I traveled to Bilbao to visit the Guggenheim Museum where Greg and Mycroft had their rendezvous in Chapter One.  I broke my foot on the way to Spain, and as such, much of my trip was curtailed.  This story in part is my way of making up to myself many of the explorations I would have liked to have made in Basque Country.  Bilbao was inspiring, the people cosmopolitan and friendly, their city ancient and modern at once, and the cuisine phenominal.  No offense to that beautiful culture is meant by telling the story of a few fictional misguided ETA terrorists in this fic.  
  
The French and Spanish authorities have entered into cease-fires as of October 2011 with ETA and other Basque paramilitary groups who have long sought an independent Basque state.  There remains distrust on both sides, and the awareness that not every former freedom fighter (or, as the authorities would say, terrorist) agrees to abide by the cease-fire.   
[](http://pics.livejournal.com/ghislainem70/pic/00036ggw/)  
  
ETA claimed 829 terrorist deaths since it began around 1968. For decades ETA killed in Spain, but hid in France. The French considered them separatists, not terrorists. But after years of negotiations, France changed its mind. The French began cracking down, sharing intelligence, making arrests, most recently in the almost unknown village of Willencourt in March 2011, when  ETA's chief Alejandro Zobaran Arriola was arrested in a hail of gunfire by a joint French and Spanish SWAT-type operation.  
  
* * *  
  
Why Borneo?  I have been writing of the disappearance of Lord Anthony Holmes on an expedition to Borneo for several fics.  Firstly, Borneo is one of the wildest and most botanically and zoologically diverse places on the planet, also possessed of a rich heritage of ethnic and tribal populations, an entirely suitable place for an eminient ethnobotanist to conduct explorations.  Additionally, my family has a history of soldiers having fought in the Pacific Theatre during World War II, and it has been a topic of study for me over the years.  This drama of the Sandakan Death Marches is a far too little known tragedy among many tragedies of WWII.   
  
I read as background portions of Churcill's memoirs of this part of the war, as well as two contemporary accounts of life in Borneo immediately before WWII and also of life in the prison camps of Sandakan under Japanese occupation:  
  
_Land Below the Wind_ , Agnes Newton Keith, 1940  
_Three Came Home_ , Agnes Newton Keith, 1946  
  
Agnes Keith's husband was the Conservator of Forests and Director of Agriculture for North Boreno, a British protectorate operated by one of the vestigal "Companies" that had built the Empire.  
  
Borneo,specifically the coastal region of Sabah, has become the subject of terror warnings for attacks on British tourists in Sabah, by the Al-Quada-linked Islamic Abu Sayyaf terror group.  Tourists have been kidnapped for ransom.  Some have been beheaded. Abu Sayyaf is based in the Philippines, and seeks a separate Muslim state there, but has used Borneo as a base for operations, looting, and kidnappings for years.  
  
Borneo is argued by its own people and adventure tourists who have visited Sabah to be as safe, or safer, than anywhere else and that the risk of terror attacks has been overstated.  
  
* * *  
In July 2011 it was announced that a rare, and very good example of the famous Ides of March denarius coin would be sold at auction in California.  It was sold at auction in September 2011 for $546,000.00 USD in Long Beach, California (not far from where I live).  Of the two existing gold examples of the Ides of March denarius, one was recently adjudicated to be a fake.  Curious readers may read more here: [EID MAR coin](http://www.coinlink.com/News/ancients/possibly-unique-ides-of-march-gold-coin-to-be-displayed-at-british-museum/)  
  
* * *  
  
The nuclear threats described throughout this story are real and of great concern.  Greenpeace has demostrated against France's AREVA nuclear facility at La Hague, discussed in this story, and has tried very hard to stop the shipment of MOX fuels by nuclear transports.  
  
The paint flecks by which Sherlock detects that the terrorist had been on board a nuclear cargo ship, and Sherlock's statements pertaining thereto, are about a real ship, the Pacific Heron, operated by a real company, the British-based Pacific Nuclear Transport Limited.   
  
[](http://pics.livejournal.com/ghislainem70/pic/00039h1k/)  
It is scary (and darkly amusing) to see that PNTL has a position paper on its website, purporting to reassure its "clients" of the impossibility that terrorists could ever hijack or make use of nuclear materials transported on its specialized fleet.  
  
The poisoning of John Watson by the nuclear conaminant cesium-137 was taken in part from one of the largest documented cases of nuclear contamination outside of a nuclear bomb or nuclear plant: The release of cesium-137 by innocent citizens who mistakenly dismantled an abandoned nuclear radiation machine from a defunct medical facility in 1987 in Goiania, Brazil.  Hundreds were contaminated, four persons died from contact with cesium-137, and many were made very ill.  I read many articles about this accident, and other radiation accidents.  
  
The infamous  "demon core" experiments at Los Alamos in 1945 resulted in the death of two of the nuclear physicists responsible for mishandling the plutonium core.   
  
[](http://pics.livejournal.com/ghislainem70/pic/000374kb/)  
  
Another physicist surivived with serious health effects, only to have the US Government deny him any damages and try to bury his claim althogether.  Only recently have the facts come to light.  There are many good articles about the demon core experiments.  
  
Finally, the poisoning of Alexander Litvinenko by persons as yet uncharged, but suspected to be Russian agents, has been reopened as of November 2011 by the Coroner of St Pancras, London.  Litvinenko was poisoned by the rare radioactive element polonium-210, undetected until just two  hours after his agonizing death. Officially, there is no antidote to a sufficiently large dose of polonium-210, thousands of times more deadly than, for example, cyanide.  Unofficially, in the aftermath of the Litvinenko poisoning, the Pentagon and other military agencies around the world commissioned drug companies to find a cure, and the three  "experimental" treatments given to Sherlock and John are from my researches into what is publicly available about this topic.  My personal suspicion is that a secret antidote now exists but has not been made public.   
Read about the reopening of the Litvinenko iquiry, including the opening of alleged MI5 and MI6 "death files," here: [Litvinenko](http://rt.com/news/litvinenko-secret-files-declassify-019)  
  
The AREVA hospital for Nuclear Medicine in Querqueville, France, near Cherbourg, is the author's invention.  The author hopes that AREVA, which operates the massive La Hague plant, will recogize that Dr. Carre was adjudicated insane in his poisoning of Sherlock and John and as such no blame can be placed on AREVA:  
  
[](http://pics.livejournal.com/ghislainem70/pic/000386fh/)  
  
The _Jules Verne_ and _Bastide de Moustiers,_ operated by world-renowned chef Alain Ducasse, are real, and as described.  It is also true that Alain Ducasse had to abandon his investment in restaurant/hotel in the Basque country after bombings and threats by ETA.  The statement read by Mycroft to Lestrade in Chapter Two was taken from true events: [Ducasse and ETA](http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2007/feb/19/spain.france)  
  
I hope you enjoyed All Souls' Day.  
  
Special thanks to maggie_conagher: http://maggie-conagher.livejournal.com for cheerleading to the end <3  
  
ghislaine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Readers who enjoy my tracks can find the All Souls' Day playlist here: [ALL SOULS' DAY PLAYLIST](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9o0BNgfzv7U&list=PLpHDEpZAuY1-yY3Xl0A1Co999RxbJLSPq)


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